“I will never extol the luxuries of an interstellar liner again,” vowed Annamaria Juarez. “Even fast slower-than-light travel is a bitch.” She looked around her tiny cabin for the code that would allow her to send large files through interstellar space. The disk couldn’t be far - nothing could be far away on the H.S.U. Tutu.
Finally, she found it, under a pile of folded socks and two movie schedules. She contemplated doing a final read-through, but she knew everything was exactly as it should be, from the death of the Planetary Director in chapter one to the friendly quips between the detectives at the end. Those quips were still up on the screen:
“We make a great team as always, partner!” said John Larson.
“Yes, John Larson,” agreed K’t’thrak. ‘Like satin and shosha beans.’
Larson shrugged. “Whatever you say, buddy!”
Annamaria smiled and entered the send codes. The John Larson mysteries had made her a household name back on Earth. Everybody wanted to laugh at the antics of John’s El’kizak partner, K’t’thrak, and marvel at how well the two worked together. The aliens, Annamaria had decided, fascinated most humans.
Annamaria was not.
Her editor, Kadija, seemed to think it would be fabulous publicity if she toured the El’kizak homeworld, Fetor. She had gushed about it on the phone. “Just think of the authenticity it would give your work!”
“Authenticity,” Annamaria repeated.
“Sure! You could have pictures of you on Fetor, with some El’kizak, maybe-it’d be great. The marketing department loves the idea. Okay, so you’ll be leaving on March 22....”
Annamaria had protested that she had a deadline while she was supposed to be on the ship, but Kadija assured her that there were state of the art computer facilities available to all guests, and that she would be able to send her manuscript as soon as it was done.
And, really, there wasn’t much else to do. The crew didn’t seem to want to talk to her-not a single fan among them-and the other passengers were just plain strange. Government employees, most of them, with the perpetually closed mouth that said “security clearance.” So The Guns of Ceres7 was getting turned in two days early. The day they got to Fetor. Annamaria assumed she’d have enough to do that she wouldn’t want to have to work on anything but public appearances and taking notes. She finished the transfer and strapped in for the barbaric and undignified landing procedures.
“Miss Annabelle Jones!”, called one of the El’kizak as she stepped off the ship. “Or Miss Annamaria Juarez? Welcome, welcome! We happy see you!”
“I’m happy to see you, too,” she said, slowly and distinctly.
“We go embassy now, give dinner,” said the El’kizak. “I Shan.”
“Pleased to meet you, Shan.” Annamaria followed him towards a little aircar, her suitcase in tow. They stowed the suitcase next to her seat.
“You in back, so safe,” said Shan. “I front seat.”
“Annabelle Jones, honored guest!” said the pilot. “So pleased! Embassy five minutes away. Maybe ten.”
“Thank you,” said Annamaria. The plane started to smell a little like nutmeg.
“Journey good, Miss Jones?” asked the pilot.
Annamaria hated being addressed by her pen name. “Yes, thank you, it was quite nice.”
“Better here,” put in Shan. “Very nice smells.”
The nutmeg got stronger. Annamaria remembered it from her books as the smell the El’kizak used for humor. Or maybe it was good nature. They certainly seemed pleased to see her.
“Yes, it does smell pleasant here,” she said. “Even the spaceport is lovely.”
“Yes, yes.” The pilot bobbed his head up and down. “Lovely spaceport. Lovely town. Lovely embassy. You wait.”
The nutmeg began to be overpowering. Annamaria was glad that the trip to the embassy was a short one. The pilot dropped them off in front of a small crowd. Annamaria had to cross a long green carpet of blossoms to get to the doorway and her formal reception.
“Ah, Miss Juarez,” said the El’kizak who was waiting in the door. He looked like an ambassador of some type. “So pleased to meet you! I trust you had a comfortable flight?”
“It was quite comfortable, yes,” said Annamaria. She blinked. “Your English is excellent.”
“Shan!” said the ambassador. “Have you been playing at K’t’thrak again?”
Shan wriggled and emitted a scent like nutmeg. “We happy see you. We go embassy.”
“You must forgive my young colleague,” said the ambassador. “His enthusiasm for your books goes a little too far, and he plays the fool.”
“Me like book,” said Shan.
“You read my books?” Annamaria felt the ground dropping out from under her.
“We love your books!” said the ambassador. “Everyone reads them. Sometimes they’re even taught in the schools, in English classes. They’re so funny!”
“I don’t think I caught your name,” said Annamaria, clinging to something mundane while she tried to process it. Taught in schools? Funny?
“Oh, I am so sorry. In my enthusiasm for your work, I’m afraid I was almost as rude as Shan. I’m Albarik. Earth ambassador and liaison, and publisher of English and Arabic works.”
“Pleased to meet you,” she murmured faintly.
“Not half as pleased as we are to meet you!” bounced Shan. “The great comedic genius to bridge the species.”
“Nine books,” said Albarik, finally getting around to leading her inside, “and K’t’thrak still doesn’t know how to use the word ‘the’! Or ‘is’!”
“Bob in trouble, John Larson!’” quoted Shan. They both emitted a lot more nutmeg; Annamaria was sure now that it was their laughter-smell.
“And John Larson - what a dolt!” said Albarik. “How many times has he forgotten to recharge his stunner? And his way with women - some of our teenagers now call an unsuccessful date a ‘John Larson.’”
John Larson, thought Annamaria, was a tragic and set-upon hero. And his square jaw didn’t hurt with the ladies, either. “Well, it’s always nice to meet fans,” she said.
Of course, it was not. Three weeks of touring and book signing and having to put up with commentaries on her comedic genius began to be rather wearing. Annamaria began to loathe the smell of nutmeg. There were advantages -always something new to see or do, some detail to have nailed down - but she arrived back at the spaceport with a grim determination and a new book firmly in mind. She finished it in the first month of the voyage, sent it to Kadija on Earth, and sat back to wait for a response. After a
moment’s thought, she sent another copy to Albarik on Fetor.
Annamaria got the response back from Kadija within two weeks, a reasonable amount of time to account for travel. She had never seen Kadija look so grave.
“I read your latest,” she said without preamble. “And, frankly, I’m concerned. Your cover letter talked about a greater sensitivity and awareness of the culture of the El’kizak. I don’t think that’s why anybody reads your books, Annamaria. Here’s what I heard from Albarik on Fetor.”
The screen shifted to another recorded message, this one from the El’kizak who had received her. “This book,” he said. “We can’t publish it. It’s just not funny. Where are the bungling exploits? Where is the amusing foolishness? Where, in fact, are John Larson and K’t’thrak?”
Kadija reappeared. “I’m afraid we agree. You talked a lot in your cover letter about cultural sensitivity and learning from each other. Frankly, you don’t seem to have paid attention. Go back to what they love you for on both planets. I’ll give you an extension, but - this book is just not publishable.
She leaned forward. “Please don’t take this personally, Annamaria. Do what you know how to do best.”
Annamaria put her head in her hands. Back on Earth, thousands of readers thought that the El’kizak were illiterate and barely verbal. The El’kizak thought her best characters were an elaborate joke. And her editor wouldn’t back her up on any of it.
She called up a file and dictated: “K’t’thrak threw the door open. ‘John Larson, come now! Planetary Director dead!’ John Larson’s square-jawed face went suddenly alert. ‘All right, partner,’ he said. ‘I’m on my way.’”
THE END