“Yeah.” Alex gathered it up. As he rearranged it in his arms, the alien caught sight of the insignia on the front. His manner changed abruptly.
“Pardon me, Starfighter. I am Navigator/Systems Operator Grig. At your service, sir.”
He performed an awkward salute which Alex found interesting to observe but impossible to duplicate. So he took the thick hand and shook it instead. Grig inspected his freed limb thoughtfully.
“Curious custom.”
“We like it.”
“Individualistic yet intimate, this personal physical contact. Never cared much for it myself, but everyone is entitled to his own mode of greeting, isn’t he?”
“If you say so, Grig.” Alex nodded toward the line of silent gunstars. “You fly those?”
“Me, fly? You mean as an attack pilot? Dear me, no. I am a Navigator and Systems Operator. I run the ship during combat, thus freeing the piloting Starfighters to do what they do best fight.”
“Your job sounds tougher than the other.”
“Not in the least. I have only mechanical problems to deal with, instead of mental ones. You are named?”
“Sorry. I’m Alex Rogan.”
“Two names?”
“That’s our custom.”
“Naming does vary from system to system, culture to culture. I find the use of more than one name unnecessarily duplicitous, though there are those species who make use of a dozen names or more.”
“Hate to have to sign my name like that.” Alex studied his new acquaintance. Grig was more than polite; he was downright deferential. He also struck Alex as straightforward, honest and devoid of guile. Maybe this was his chance to get a straight answer or two to some questions.
“Listen, Grig, maybe you can help me out. See, I was playing this game back home, a videogame, and this guy comes along, only he’s no guy. He’s an alien, a non-human. I get into his car, only it’s no car, it’s a spaceship, and there’s been a biggggg mistake somewhere along the line.”
Grig stared back at him. “My friend, you sound very confused.”
“That’s the understatement of the century, Navigator.”
“You said there’d been a mistake. What kind of mistake?”
“I don’t belong here. I thought I’d won some kind of big prize or something for reaching a score of a million on the game. I thought maybe we were going to go to the downtown motel to discuss it. Then I thought maybe I’d have to go into L.A. or something to accept it. So I end up going a lot farther, and there’s no prize.” He indicated the pile of clothing. “I can’t put these on. You called me a Starfighter. I’m no Starfighter, just a kid.”
“Starfighter ability is not a function of age, Alex Rogan.”
“Just Alex.”
“Alex, then. It is a matter of a special combination of unusual talents courage, flexibility under stress, the ability to make rapid decisions while under great pressure, reflexology, mental acuity, determination and more. I am not qualified to enumerate all of them, much less to explain. But you were brought here to be a Starfighter, it would seem, and you have been issued the uniform.”
Alex shook his head violently. “Uh-uh. Not a chance. I’m not putting this on. I don’t belong here. I told you, it’s all been a big mistake.”
Now Grig appeared uncertain. “Am I to understand that you are actually declining the honor of becoming a Starfighter?”
“You got it.” Alex said it with a relieved sigh, pleased to at last have made his point to someone. “Besides, how can you call it an honor when the ambassador from the League refers to it as belonging to ‘primitives’?”
“Because a talent is rare does not make it less valuable, Alex. We have artists who utilize primitive techniques. That does not make their art less valid. There are concertiflows who design musical superstructures based on motifs thousands of years old. Their flows are no less effective for that.”
“Well, mine is,” Alex insisted stubbornly. “I don’t belong here.”
“Extraordinary. Unheard of. Not for your presence to be a mistake, but for you to decline the honor of becoming a Starfighter. Only a few have qualified. Primitive you may think it, but the honor remains significant. And you are actually turning it down.” He considered thoughtfully. “Wait a moment. Tell me again where you are from?”
“I said, from Earth, and we’re not at war with anyone except each other.”
“Earth, Earth,” Grig mumbled. “I am trying to recall. Perhaps in the vicinity of Quarlia.” He brightened. “Yes, I remember now. An insignificant place, well outside the usual trade or exploration routes.”
“We like it,” Alex said defensively.
“Most curious this is. If I am remembering my galographics correctly, Earth is not a formal member of the League.”
“As far as I know, we’re not even an informal member. Everybody on my planet thinks all of you are figments of their imaginations.”
“Typical reaction of those primitive races who believe themselves to be the center of existence. Nothing personal, Alex Rogan. Alex.”
“No offense taken,” Alex replied. “I agree with you, Grig. We’re not a real modest bunch. Now, don’t you agree with me that I don’t belong here? This isn’t my fight.”
“It’s all highly irregular. Earth isn’t due to be considered for League membership until its inhabitants mature to the next level.” He eyed Alex with sudden intensity. “Tell me, how were you recruited?”
“Through a game. A machine. Some kind of simulator.”
“No, no. I don’t mean how were you tested. Who actually brought you here?”
“A guy who calls himself Centauri. I thought that was funny because that’s the name of the star nearest our own sun, and . . .” He broke off, staring past the Navigator. “And there he goes now.” He waved. “Hey, Centauri!”
“Ah. Centauri.” Grig relaxed. Everything was falling into place.
“You know him?” Alex inquired as they started to where the subject in question was arguing with a Rylan officer.
“He is known to me personally as well as through his extensive reputation.” Grig’s tone was carefully neutral. “You are not the first to surfer from his manipulations. He is very clever and conceals his doubtful activities beneath a mantle of false simplicity. This matter will be resolved quickly, I assure you.”
“Well, good,” said Alex, feeling better than he had in some time.
The old man was still clutching his handful of crystals, or whatever they were, his glance shifting from his treasure to the eyes of the officer yelling at him. Hearing his name called he looked down the corridor to see Alex and Grig approaching.
Alex was more than a little surprised when Centauri waved back and strode boldly to meet them. Maybe the old man thought the best defense was a good offense and was trying to put Alex off his guard.
Or maybe, despite Grig’s words indicating the contrary, the oldster was really a little wacky.
He reached out to tousle Alex’s hair fondly. Alex pushed the hand aside and stared grim-faced at its owner.
Before he could say anything, however, the Rylan officer caught up with them.
“For the last time,” he told Centauri angrily, “take off that ridiculous disguise!”
“Ridiculous disguise?” Centauri sounded offended as he caressed his false face. “I rather like this appearance. It is most flexible and capable of conveying a great many meanings merely by the contraction of certain muscles.”
“You are a member of the government forces, however slim the attachment,” the officer insisted. “You will appear in your natural state when on duty.”
“Am I on duty, then? That’s funny. I thought I’d just been paid off.”
“Paid off?” said Grig. “You’re up to your old Ex-calibur tricks again, eh, Centauri?”
The old man squinted at the navigator. “Do I know you?”
“Navigator/Operator First-Class Grig, recruited from Sesnet Shipping to run a gunstar’s guts.”
“Sesnet, Sesnet.” Centauri frowned. “Don’t know as how I’ve ever traveled on that line.”
“Maybe you haven’t, but you once used it to ship some Uramite sculpture from Shro-al to Wouldd on a liner I was assigned to. I remember your name because it was on the shipping manifest and because of all the fuss at the port when we unloaded the shuttle and the buyer nearly tore the place apart looking for somebody to strangle, preferably you. It seems that all his expensive sculpture had melted in transit.”
Centauri studied the floor. “The sculpture all passed inspection before leaving Shro-al.”
“I’m sure it did. But the temperature differential between Shro-al and Wouldd was just enough to affect the natural resins from which the sculptures were fashioned. So they melted in Wouldd’s strong sunlight, just like you melted into the distance.”
“It wasn’t my fault,” Centauri protested. “That buyer ought to have known enough to have had a refrigeration unit waiting for his danged sculptures. Anyways, what’s that got to do with anything?”
“Just reminding myself,” Grig replied easily, “and this officer here, of how you operate. It seems we have a bit of a problem here.”