Space Stations

A tendril of sluggish brown mass wove up to the bar. The vessel disappeared within. A moment later it reappeared. The Glug expanded to three times its normal size, becoming a denser brown. Ab'nere ducked behind the bar, bracing herself. The Glug belched like a thunderclap followed by a gush of air as strong as the atmosphere from an entire arm of the station rushing to fill a vacuum. The accompanying stench had been known to revive those on the brink of passing on—or cause healthy athletes to drop into a dead faint. The automatic air scrubbers kicked in. Ab'nere emerged from her crouch with a misting bottle. She sprayed the space around the Glug to make sure the odors died an ignoble death. Her favorite acidic sweet smell, the computer said the infant species called mint, replaced the stench of the Glug. Actually this “mint” smelled a lot like the pernicious

“sweet on the tongue” or sott plant that had started on Ab'nere's home world and grew on every known oxygen atmosphere planet, with or without gravity. A horticulturist had once told Ab'nere that if she wanted to start an herb garden in Labyrinth's hydroponics lab, she should plant a little sott and step out of the way.

“Another, please.” The Glug's voice appeared on the translation monitor even as Ab'nere's mind processed the grunts and moans into language.

Ab'nere set out another double shot of methane, keying in a nice tip for herself on the Glug's tab.

She had just cleansed the next belch when the door whooshed open. A tall, loose-jointed being ambled in. Its lower limbs were encased in a sturdy fabric of dark blue with hints of white in a complex and interesting weave. A finer fabric in a complementary paler shade of the same weave covered its upper body. It removed a large head covering made from some kind of animal leather. It had an amazingly small head for the size of the body. Not much brain capacity there. Pale fur with golden highlights tumbled to where the creature's neck and arm joints met. It shook the mane so that it flowed tangle free halfway down its back. But its paws and face were not furred. Curious.

And those lumpy organs on its chest? Could the infants have sent a female to negotiate for them? These negotiations could become fierce.

Ab'nere prepared to double her fee.

The infant's bright eyes, that matched the clothing in color, moved restlessly (warily?), searching the room. Its gaze lighted on Ab'nere. Something akin to lightning flashed across the eyes and it curved a narrow facial opening upward. It bared no dentalia.

Good. It had at least read the first page of the etiquette book.

“Howdy!” the being nearly shouted. A violation of etiquette rule #57A, no need to raise one's voice with the translator jacks.

Ab'nere ran the greeting through her vocabulary. Nothing computed in her head. She keyed the computer to check with vernacular references.

The explanation scrolled across the screen. “Howdy: a contracted form of 'how do you do.' An accepted polite greeting in portions of the central sector of the northern continent of the western hemisphere.”

Great. Not only was the language unstructured and incredibly illogical, it varied from region to region. Maybe she should jack in now and avoid a headache.

The infant's pointed-toe boots with slightly elevated heels made little clicking sounds against the ceramic floor. Ab'nere clenched her jaw. Etiquette rule number 57B, no untoward noise while moving. This might distract from full comprehension of speech.

“This here the 'First Contact Cafi'?” the being asked as it moved toward the bar in that curiously graceful, loose-jointed procedure.

Ab'nere contained her distaste at the new name for her beloved Labyrinth.

At least the infant spoke at a lower volume now. It enunciated each word slowly, drawing out many of the syllables. Another politeness to make certain the computer and listeners understood the language.

The infant species plunked its head covering on the bar and spun it. A curious device of two equilateral triangles, one with the apex up, and the other with the apex pointing down, adorned the front. The geometrical symbol of a six-pointed star had been adopted by every space faring nation as an indicator for star systems that supported planets and civilizations capable of space travel. Rather arrogant of the infant species to sport this design on its first excursion into civilized space.

“Body too big for efficient space travel,” the Glug muttered and disconnected from the language computer with a little belch that hardly stank at all.

“Maybe inefficient for conservation of resources aboard ship, but an estimable source of methane,” Ab'nere replied sotto voce in Glug. She gave him another double shot of methane on the house.

The Glug downed the drink and contained his belch—he must be nearing saturation. Or was too intimidated by the infant to properly digest. He shifted into a different amorphous shape rather than reply.

He made a curious form that invited the infant to perch atop him.