Angry Young Spaceman by Jim Munroe Read Free Book Online Page A

counter. I stared at it like it was a genie’s lamp.

    “Is that...” I mumbled, “is that a ritual?”

    Mr. Zik was putting the kettle away. “Ritual? No,” he said. “It is just making Zazzimurg.”

    One of the droids came in and said something to Mr. Zik. He nodded and the droid bobbed off. I wondered why it hadn’t talked to me. Was it programmed to favour Octavians? That was illegal, but possible...

    “What are your plans for today?” he asked me.

    “Um, nothing really. No plans.” Other than cleaning this place from top to bottom, unpacking...

    “Would you like to go on a trip?”

    “Uh... sure?”

    “Wonderful.” He waited a second and looked around the kitchen. “Can I use your vidphone?”

    “Yeah, of course.”

    He turned on the vidphone and spoke with another Octavian, one wearing a rainbow coloured bandanna who gesticulated a lot. I poked through the cupboards.

    Something was happening in my brain. I was able to note an outlandish bandanna on an Octavian without it registering how odd that was. Now that I did register it, though, the first thing that came to mind was how hilarious my friends back home would find it when I told them.

    And that wasn’t quite right either.

    ***

    We had been on the bus for four hours before I cracked.

    “When will we arrive, Mr. Zik?”

    My voice was very conspicuous. Four people looked and a half-dozen more wanted to. It wasn’t as if I was the only one speaking — there were two guys up near the front who were really loud, and attracted no looks despite their volume.

    Mr. Zik told me that we’d be there in two hours. I didn’t ask where there was.

    The seats were really quite appropriate for human dimensions. After four hours, however, the differences became more significant. I wondered how 9/3 was doing in the land of the munchkins. 9/3 didn’t have to worry about leg cramps, mind you. The image of 9/3’s body walking headless through the spaceport came to mind, and I made a mental note to call him when I got back.

    If I got back. It was Friday, and I figured there was a good chance of getting back for Monday. But for all I knew, I wasn’t scheduled to start work until the following week. I really didn’t know anything. What prevented me from asking was one of the things they had taught us at orientation.

    “With many cultures, you’ll find that their concept of duty is far more important.” This was from a tall thin man just back from a year of teaching. “For instance, the Squidollians take being a host very seriously. Amongst a group of friends, they’ll take turns being host — and the host pays for everything, arranges everything, takes all the credit and blame for everything. And being an offworlder means that you’ll probably never get the honour of being a host.” A happy murmur went through the room.

    “Yeah well, it cuts both ways,” he said. “You’ll never pay — and you’ll never really belong. Anyway, have some faith in your host. Often offworlders badger the host with questions about everything, and this can be taken as a kind of insult — ‘cause you’re basically questioning their ability as a host. Here — on Earth that is, not here here, I think I’m home already — saying someone’s a bad host is kind of a joke. There, it’s... not.”

    “Are you uncomfortable?” asked Mr. Zik.

    “No, it’s not so bad,” I lied. “Maybe I can put my legs out here...” I stretched them out in the aisle, watching for a reaction. A little girl, who was playing with a little human doll, looked at me and then back at her doll. She seemed to make a connection, but stayed quiet about it.

    But why was the doll not shaped like an Octavian? I watched how the girl played with it: moving the doll through the air in the slightly wavy way Octavians moved, using its legs to pick up things as often as the arms.

    There wasn’t anything in the orientation against asking toy questions, so I went for it. “Mr. Zik,