He woke up suddenly, aware even as he woke of where he was—and that he was not alone.
He blinked his eyes open. Standing over him was a figure in cutoff shorts and long black hair. He grinned placatingly up at the person, and then something very like an electric shock ran through him, taking away the power of speech entirely, as he realized that the person was female. A human female.
He jumped up, holding his arms out with the palms open to show that he meant no harm. He proved it by putting on the friendly, well-meaning smile he had practiced so often in front of a mirror. He brushed bits of dried straw out of his hair and finally regained the use of his tongue.
The woman’s lips were moving, and Sandy realized he hadn’t replaced his hearing aid. He found it in the pocket of the parka, pushed it in prayerfully . . . It worked! “Hello?” the woman’s voice said inquiringly.
“Hello,” he said politely. “I guess you’re wondering who I am. I’m Sandy—I’m John William Washington, I mean,” he said. “I came in here to get out of the storm. I hope it’s all right? You see, I was hitchhiking and I lost my way—”
The woman didn’t seem surprised. She didn’t seem to show any expression at all. She was a lot darker skinned than Sandy had expected, and her face seemed impassive. “You might as well come up to the house,” she said. Turning, she led the way.
The rain had stopped. The skies had at least partly cleared—Sandy gazed entranced at white, fluffy “clouds” and blue “sky,” and the green of the land all around him. They were in a valley. The Hakh’hli landing ship was nowhere in sight, but Sandy could see the mountains that surrounded them—though they did not look as they were supposed to, no doubt because he was seeing them from the wrong angle. “Come on in,” the woman said, holding the door for him.
“Thank you,” he said politely, and entered.
They were in the “kitchen” of a house. Sandy gazed around in fascination. The smells alone were startling. A young male was standing at a “stove,” stirring a flat pan filled with something that sizzled and popped over an open flame. (An open flame!) That was the source of at least one of the odors, both provocative and repellent, but there were others Sandy could not identify.
The youth looked up at Sandy. “He’s a big one, Mom,” he said. “Does he want some bacon and eggs?”
“Oh, yes,” said Sandy eagerly, linking the smells to the familiar words which, until then, had lacked a referent in his experience. “Yes, please. I can pay.” He fumbled in his pocket for one of the little nuggets and began his rehearsed explanation. “I’ve been placer mining, you see. I collect sand and rocks from the stream beds. Then I wash them in running water. The lighter pieces are washed away, and I pick the gold out.”
The woman looked at him curiously but didn’t comment. All she said was, “Do you want some hash browns with your eggs?”
“Oh, yes, I think so,” Sandy said doubtfully. He wasn’t sure exactly what hash browns were, and when the human boy put a plate in front of him he was even less sure he wanted them. Or any of it. The “eggs” were round, yellow blobs surrounded by a thin film of white substance, browned at the edges; that was easy to identify. The “bacon” was the meat, and he had seen pictures of that before, too. What was left had to be the “hash browns,” a doughy mess of starch, crisped and browned on top.
He picked up the fork expertly enough; all those hours of practice were paying off. But when he prodded the eggs the yolks broke and spilled oily, yellow fat over the other things on the plate.
He hesitated, aware of the woman watching him with interest. The boy had disappeared, but Sandy heard his muffled voice coming from the other room, perhaps talking to someone. Sandy took a tiny bit of the yolk-drenched “hash browns” on the end of his fork and tasted it.
It was entirely unlike anything Sandy Washington had ever tasted before. He could not say that it was revolting. He couldn’t say the opposite, either, or even that it was edible; apart from the saltiness of it, there were a lot of flavors but none he recognized.
He smiled placatingly up at the woman. With every other sensation that was impinging on him, he was most aware of her femaleness. She wasn’t pretty by any standards Sandy had learned. She wasn’t even young. He had no confidence in his ability to judge human ages, but the difference between them was generational. The boy had called her “Mom,” and that was a clue, because the boy, Sandy thought, had to be more or less his own age, or nearly.
The boy came back into the room. “They’re on their way,” he told his mother.
Sandy glanced at her, perplexed, but all she said was, “Do you want some ketchup for the hash browns?”
“Yes, please,” Sandy said, putting his fork down. The woman plunked a bottle before him and waited expectantly. He picked it up uncertainly. It had a metal cap on it, but that was a known problem; he took the bottle in one hand, the cap in the other and, as gently as he could, tried pulling and twisting until it turned and came off.
There was an empty glass in front of him. Sandy poured some of the thick, red stuff into the glass, barely covering the bottom. When he heard the boy snicker he realized he had done something wrong.
Inspiration struck. “I have to go to the toilet,” he said, and was glad to be escorted into a room with plumbing fixtures and a door.
Once the door was closed behind him he breathed more easily. Making his way among humanity as a secret agent was a lot more difficult than he had expected.
For that matter, so was going to the toilet. The Earthly garments were just enough different from the ones he had worn all his life on the ship that he had trouble making the necessary adjustments, and then there was the question of the plumbing itself.
It all took time, but Sandy had no objection to that. When he had finally found a way to cause the toilet bowl to empty itself and refill, and had rearranged his clothing, he paused to regard himself in the little oval mirror over the washstand.
He pulled the hearing aid carefully out of his ear, looking it over. It didn’t seem to be harmed. He wiped it as dry as he could on one of the fabric things hanging in the bathroom and reinserted it. His ear was sore, but he couldn’t get along without the aid.
The silence inside the bathroom, however, was a blessing. No one was asking him questions. He didn’t have to be ready to respond to a challenge, because there was nothing to respond to. He wished he could stay right there in that room until everyone went away and, somehow, he could get back to the lander, back to the ship, back to the familiar life that had been his . . .
On the other hand . . .
On the other hand, he was home! It was what his whole life had been aimed toward, and now it was real! Already he had been in the presence of two actual human beings—yes, certainly, there had been some little embarrassments and worries, but they had offered him food, hadn’t they? And that must mean something. Yes, certainly, they looked stranger than he had expected. But they had been kind. It was hard to believe that they were of the race of spoilers who had so sadly damaged the planet that it was a devastated ruin . . .
He stopped there, struck by a thought, and went to look out the bathroom window.
His brow furrowed. From this point, the planet didn’t look all that devastated. Actually, the long meadow behind the house was peaceful and green, and he could see that someone had let the cows from the barn out to graze in it.
It was all quite confusing.
He realized he had been in the bathroom for quite a long time. Reluctantly he patted the hearing aid to make sure it was in place in his ear and turned to the door.
There was a new noise, a mechanical one he had not heard before.
He turned around as a shadow passed over the window, and then he saw a flying machine—a “helicopter”—bob slowly to the ground just a few yards from the house. A couple of people in uniform leaped out of it.
When he came out into the kitchen again they were standing there, talking in low tones to the woman and her son. “Hello, sir,” said one of them.