“What brings you to Terra?” said the Quangen.
“I might ask the same of you,” Kalainnen said.
“You can, if you want too,” said the reptile. “Look, fellow: I told you before, maybe our planets don’t get along too well, but that’s no reason why we shouldn’t. I see no harm in telling you that I’m here on a technical-aid mission. It’s about time Quange caught up with the rest of the galaxy. I’ll bet that’s why you’re here, too.”
Kalainnen debated for a moment and then decided there was no reason why he shouldn’t admit it.
“You’re right,” he said. “I have an appointment with the Colonial Minister for tomorrow.” It wasn’t quite the truth—he was only going to try to get an appointment the next day—but an old Traskan proverb warns against being too honest with Quangens.
“Oh, you do, eh?” said the Quangen, twirling the prehensile tip of his tail around his throat in an expression of, Kalainnen knew, amusement. “That’s very interesting. I’ve been waiting two years and I haven’t even come close to him. How do you rate such quick service?” He looked meaningfully at Kalainnen, flicking his tail from side to side.
“Well,” said Kalainnen, nearly sitting down in the chair and avoiding it at the last moment, “well—”
“I know,” said the Quangen. “You can’t help being a Traskan, even on Terra. I’ll forgive you. But you don’t really have an appointment tomorrow, do you?”
“No,” Kalainnen said. “As a matter of fact, I haven’t even applied yet. I just got here.”
“I thought so,” the reptile said. “In two years I’ve gotten as far as the First Assistant Undersecretary. The Colonial Minister is a very busy man, and there are more outworld planets than you can imagine. I’ve been living here. The hotel’s full of outworlders like us who are stuck here waiting to see some bureaucrat or other. I’ll introduce you around tomorrow. After two years it’s good to see someone from the same system.”
Kalainnen frowned. They hadn’t told him the mission might go on and on for a matter of years. As it was, a single afternoon on Terra had been a profoundly distressing experience. And two years?
“By the way,” the Quangen said. “There’s one little feature of the furniture here that must be bothering you. We more experienced hands know how to circumvent it.” He extended his tail under the seat of the pneumochair, explored the insides of the chair for a moment, and then pulled his tail out quickly. An abortive “Hello, welcome to—” started out of the chair and died.
“Sit down,” the Quangen said. Kalainnen did, The chair was silent.
“Thank you,” Kalainnen said. “The chair was bothering me.”
“It won’t any longer,” said the Quangen. “I’m Hork Frandel, by the way.”
“My name’s Kalainnen,” Kalainnen said. He stared glumly out the window. “What’s that box over there?” he said.
“The video,” Frandel explained. “Put a quarter in the slot and it plays. It’s entertaining, but it’s one aspect of Terran technology I’d just as soon not bring back to Quange. You may like it, of course.”
“I don’t have any coins,” Kalainnen said. “All I have is Galactic Traveler’s Checks.”
“Allow me,” said the Quangen. He reached into his upper hip pocket with his tail and withdrew a small coin, which he inserted in the appropriate slot. The video flickered and came to life.
“The big news of the day!” said a deep, robust voice, and the screen showed a fleeing multitude, “All New York is in terror today. For the first time in over a century, a dangerous alien beast has escaped from New York’s famed Zoological Gardens and is roaming the city.” The camera showed a deserted cage.
The scene cut to a very scientific-looking office and the camera focused on a dapper man with extravagant mustaches. “I’m Carlson,” he said, “head of the zoo. We’re unable to account for the escape. The animal lived here peacefully for centuries. It’s something like an ape, something like a tiger. Eats anything. Completely indestructible, perhaps immortal, hitherto quite docile though frightening-looking. Skin like stone, but flexible. Origin is somewhere on one of the smaller outworlds; unfortunately our records have been misfiled and we’re not sure exactly where the animal comes from. My guess is Rigel II, possibly Alpheraz VI.” He smiled, doing impossible things with his mustaches, and radiating an aura of complete confidence.
“We’re taking all possible steps for the beast’s recapture; meantime DO NOT PANIC, but avoid unnecessary going out.”
Kalainnen looked at the Quangen, who looked back balefully.
“Things like this happen all the time?” Kalainnen asked.
“Not too often,” Frandel said. He looked boredly at the screen, which was showing shots of some incomprehensible sporting event, apparently having lost interest in the escaped animal. He glanced at his watch—Kalainnen noted how incongrous the Terran-type watch seemed against the Quangen’s scaly skin—and got up.
“I’ve got to be moving on,” he said. “But maybe I’ll see you at the Colonial Ministry tomorrow, if it’s safe to go out. I’ve got an appointment to ask for an appointment.” The Quangen grinned, waved his tail in salute, and left.
Kalainnen watched the video until the time Frandel had bought for him expired. The camera had gone to another office, the mayor’s, and he was discussing the situation. The plans being concocted for capture of the beast were growing more and more elaborate as the minutes went on; the animal had taken up headquarters in an office building (hastily evacuated) and Terran police had established a cordon around the building, with heavy artillery trained on the entrance waiting for the animal to appear. Kalainnen wondered what the point of using artillery on an indestructible beast was, but the mayor did not dwell on the point.
Suggestions offered by various authorities over the video included flooding the building with radiation, building a steel wall around the edifice, and bombing the whole area. Erecting the wall seemed the only solution of any value, but there was always the consideration that the hungry animal might appear before the wall was finished, causing all sorts of difficulties. Kalainnen had no coins, and so he climbed into the too-soft bed and, after a while, fell asleep, pondering the state of affairs.
The next morning he went down to the Colonial Ministry. Since the animal was, at least in theory, under control, people were going about business as usual, but they were moving quickly and cautiously through the streets as if they expected to be devoured at any instant.
It was not difficult to find the Ministry—it was one of the biggest of a great many immense buildings. But it was crowded. There were colonists of all shapes and sizes pleading their various cases. Lines of outworlders extended in all directions—humans, humanoids, and grotesque total-aliens wearing protective devices of great complexity. Besides those on line, many more milled around aimlessly, apparently too confused and too deafened by the enormous hubbub to do anything else. Kalainnen could see now why the Quangen had got no farther than a First Assistant Undersecretary in two years.
“Where is this line heading?” he asked a tall purple beanpole, probably hailing from an inner world of Arcturus.
“I don’t know,” the beanpole said. “But it seems to be a short one.”
A cucumber-like alien from a planet Kalainnen didn’t know turned around and said, “Just got here? Try that line over there.” Kalainnen followed where the stubby tentacle pointed, and joined the other line, which seemed to stretch off endlessly. The new line seemed to be composed almost exclusively of humans and humanoids; occasionally a small dog-like being ran up and down the line, laughing wildly. In two hours the line moved seven feet. By late afternoon the line had unaccountably moved back until it was almost four feet behind where Kalainnen had joined it. Sensing there was no point in waiting any longer, since he still had not been able to find out what line he was on (not that it seemed to matter) and he had not been able to get anywhere in particular, he left, completely discouraged.