“Yeah, well…” Bubba began, then stopped and dried his hands. “You’re right, Mike. I can’t think my best right now, and it has been a long and eventful evenin’.” He heaved a sigh that seemed to calm him, and smiled a bit sheepishly. “Sorry, hoss. Didn’t mean to fly off like that. I’ll set you up in the spare bedroom.”
Going to a closet in the hall, Bubba brought out an air mattress and showed the alien how to inflate it; with his lung capacity, it was full in a matter of minutes, and he stretched out gratefully. He was asleep almost immediately.
Bubba stood for a few moments looking down at him, then sighed again and, picking up Mike on the way, retired to his own bedroom.
“Mike,” he said, setting the alarm clock for six A.M., “what in the hell have I got myself into this time?”
“Oh, not too much. You’ve provisionally accepted into your home an intelligent, predator-evolved omnivore who could break down one of those trees out there without sweating, promised to represent him in a dispute with his entire species, and unless I misread you, you’re on the verge of doing something even more silly, like adopting him. How close am I?”
“Awful damn. I dunno, Mike. I kinda like the big lug, and I think he got a raw deal from his friends and neighbors. I’ve always been a sucker for a sob story, and there’s something appealing about him. Aside from the fact that he looks like an expensive dog, that is.”
“Bubba, I realize that you are out of the ordinary. This is why we sought you in the first place. I also understand that you are a human of feeling, and one who becomes frustrated by what he sees as an outrage. But, are you out of your mind? You don’t have any real idea what intrinsic difficulties there are in adopting an alien. You can’t have, as it’s entirely outside of your frame of reference. Why are you so determined to take in this stray?”
“Mike, I remember a college professor I once knew who hated the very idea of abortion.” He opened a window, and looked at the trees where the ship was hidden. “Most people either talk a big game or make a damned nuisance of themselves, but Nick wasn’t like that. Instead, he and his wife adopted anything they could: black, white, Asian, and everything in between. All this on an academic’s salary, with damned little help from anywhere.”
“I think I see your point, but make it anyway.”
“He stood for what he believed, Mike. He put his money, his house, and his heart where his mouth was. I never once went to his house that there weren’t kids underfoot, running and hollering like banshees—and I never once saw him look at those kids without a smile.”
Bubba slapped the sash with one hand. “You’re goddamn straight I’m outraged! It ain’t fair, none of it. That boy is a long way from home, and I don’t have the slightest idea if I’m gonna do him any good up there. He may end up just as bad off, with no family and no home to go back to. Unless I’m willing to admit that I’ve been wasting time yakking about brotherhood for a good part of my life, I have to do right by him.”
He straightened from the window and tugged down the covers. “Besides, I never could stand to see a man estranged from his family.”
“You say that as though from experience, Bubba.”
Bubba didn’t answer right away, but got under the sheets and turned out the light. “Mayhap I am, Mike.”
“Would you like to talk about it?”
“Naw, I’m OK. Maybe later, when you’re older. G’night.”
The next morning, while Bubba was at the grocery store, the alien roused himself, took care of his morning ablution, and sat on the couch with Mike on the end table next to him.
“He calls you ‘Mike’? I wasn’t aware that Intelligences had individual designations.”
“A name of convenience. Humans give names to practically everything, including inanimate objects—which they stubbornly refuse to believe are completely inanimate.”
“I see. He doesn’t treat you as an Intelligence, then.”
“No. It was, I don’t mind telling you, somewhat disconcerting at first. Now… well, instead of being simply a navigation system or information database, I have an identity.”
“ ‘Identity…’ ” the alien said softly.
Mike had been quiet for a moment.
“Whatever else Bubba is, he is an honorable being. I have never known him to lie, or make promises he does not try his best to keep. If there is a chance, and if puts his mind to it, he will succeed.
“Not long ago, another human brought in a vehicle that wouldn’t work properly. There was no apparent reason for it not to work, but it didn’t. I watched as Bubba inspected every system for the fault without finding it. He then dismantled the vehicle into separate systems to look at them more closely. Still nothing.”
“What happened then?” the alien asked, interested in spite of himself.
“He finally dismantled the entire vehicle, part by part, until it covered the floor of the garage. Human vehicles are much more complex than they need to be, and there were parts no bigger than your smallest claw.
“He did, in fact, find the defect, although he cursed and spat the whole time and kicked a trash can across the room. Then, he cleaned each part individually before reassembling the vehicle.”
The alien nodded. “I think I see your point.”
“He might not be able to help you after all,” Mike said, “but it will not be because he didn’t try his best.”
“This thing he has called me… ‘hoss’? It’s a word I don’t know.”
“Regional idiom, a degenerative form of the noun ‘horse.’ ” Mike displayed a picture of a Percheron on his screen. “A reference to your size, and meant affectionately.”
“ ‘Hoss.’ Short, but oddly satisfying. I like it, I think.” The alien sat for a moment in thought.
“You know humans, and I don’t.”
“I do, indeed, know more about them than you. That doesn’t make me an expert.”
“Why do they name things?”
“Good question. I wish I had as good an answer.”
“To connote possession, perhaps?”
“In some cases. In most cases, not.” Mike paused. “I wish I understood the human need for names. No other races I’m aware of are quite so adamant about knowing someone else’s identity. It’s considered rather rude.”
“You must know how important identity is to us… to me. All that I was has been stripped away. My name was proud, rich with the Line of my Progenitors. My profession was respected, and my position one of honor. Why, then,” he said in puzzlement, “does this degenerative cognate of the word for a draft animal comfort me?”
Again, Mike was silent for a few moments.
“Understand, please, that I can only speculate on this question as it relates to Bubba Pritchert. I cannot vouch for the rest of his race.”
“I understand.”
“Bubba is not at ease with anything he considers his inferior—or his superior. He is aware that he is unlike most of his fellow humans intellectually. His formal schooling ceased almost before it began, and he has worked hard ever since to educate himself, up to and including reading their most highly respected encyclopedia from first to last volume.
“As a result, he is, by most measures, far better educated than most—and totally lacking in the formal disciplines that are recognized by academics. This is more of a problem than you might know; humans are among the most ego-ridden species I’ve ever encountered.
“For him,” Mike continued, “being able to name something gives him a handle by which it can be grasped; it equalizes the named so that it is no longer a threat.”