from one another. They quickly determined several areas of technology where their interests dovetailed. In fact, by combining their expertise, they could produce a new generation of spacecraft that would make it much easier for the two federations to see each other. Both took that as a good sign.
After days of talking business, the Union finally asked the Bloc, “So what about artworks? What kind of stuff do your people make?”
The Bloc stared blankly. “Artworks?”
“Well,” said the Union, “what kind of music do you like?
The Bloc looked confused. “There seems to be a bug in our translation software. Music?”
“Pleasant sounds,” said the Union. “Auditory compositions intended to induce desired states of mind.”
The Bloc went back to staring blankly.
“Or scripted narratives,” the Union went on. “Books, movies, holo-threads, VR . . . any sort of fictive utterance.”
Blank.
“Come on,” said the Union, “you must tell stories.”
The Bloc looked aghast at its translation device. “Untrue accounts of people who never existed?”
The Union sighed. “So there’s no point in asking if you’d like to dance?”
Back home, the Union told Didge, “Well, there’s two decades of my life I’ll never get back.”
Didge said, “You negotiated a promising trade agreement.”
“I trade with lots of people; what I wanted was
The Union told Didge, “Why didn’t you ask if she liked art?”
“Oh,” Didge replied, “I must have missed that in your requirements. MUST HAVE AN APPRECIATION OF ART. No, sorry, I don’t have that written down.”
“When you were generating translation software, the absence of words for
“You don’t have a word for
The Union asked, “What’s
“The ability to set a sensible bedtime and to follow through on your decision.”
The Union stared blankly.
“Is there someone on the list who
Didge said, “Perhaps you’d like the Nebular Commune. They occupy several nebulas around the galaxy, but not the areas in between. The Commune only inhabits regions with heightened visual appeal.”
“What about music and dance?”
“The Commune practices them in abundance. Also many types of narrative entertainment, tactile and olfactory media, pyrofantasias . . . ”
“Pyrofantasias?”
“Making things explode in pretty colors.”
“My kind of girl,” the Union said. “What’s wrong with her?”
“Why do you keep asking that?”
“If a civilization is attractive, there must be a reason why she isn’t already attached. This galaxy is
Didge said, “The Commune fits all your dating criteria. She’s lively, she’s organic, she owns valuable real estate . . . ”
“All right, all right, give her a call.”
The process went smoothly, due to new technology obtained from the Bloc. (Sometimes you can learn from a failed relationship.) The Union’s communication grid now reached farther; its scout-ships flew faster. Didge breached the Commune’s language barrier in only five years. In another four, she’d arranged a cozy get- together.
First contact took place in a small nebula (naturally), on a hot rocky planet orbiting a blue-white star. The world had no permanent population, but the Union couldn’t help noticing a complex of thermoproofed buildings several centuries old. “Hey, Didge,” the Union whispered over a long-range communicator. “Did the Commune once have a colony here?”
“No,” Didge answered. “But I believe the Commune has employed the planet for previous meetings with foreign delegations.”
“What? How many other federations has she brought here?”
“The Silicon Syndicate, the Cybertheologic Collective, Emancipation of the—”
“Didge!”
At that moment, the Commune’s diplomats appeared. They belonged to a dozen species, but all were dressed in diaphanous robes of vivid colors. “Greetings, greetings, greetings!” they sang in complex polyphonic harmonies.
“Hi,” said the Union. Its delegation wore business suits.
“Let us retire to the rooms of delight,” the Commune’s diplomats sang.
“Could we talk a little first?” the Union asked.
“About what?”
“We’d just like to get to know you. For instance, what are your laws on intellectual property?”
The Commune stared blankly.
“Okay, look,” the Union said, “intellectual property laws provide clear title of ownership over ideas or information, so that those who originate new concepts or designs can—”
“Have you ever stuck a wire into the pleasure center of your brain?” the Commune interrupted.
“Um . . . ”
“And another wire into the pain center. Then you give the controls to a total stranger, never knowing which button he’ll press.”
The Union delegation cleared its collective throat. “Um, no, we’ve never done that.”
The Commune’s chief diplomat tossed over a black box with a red button and a green one. “You go first.”
The Union asked, “Which button’s which?”
The Commune laughed. “Does it matter?”
The Union set the black box down. “Mayyyy-be later.”
The Commune shrugged. “Have you ever planted a device in a blue-white sun that will make it go nova if new acquaintances don’t stop acting like total prudes?”
“Aww, jeez . . . ” Reluctantly, the Union picked up the black box.
“Next time,” the Union told Didge, “we are
Throughout Union territory, the frenzy of creative output had come to an abrupt halt. The public’s mood had veered sharply toward comfort food and muted conversations on darkened verandas. Grown-up children called their parents without being asked. Teens sat alone in their rooms and obsessed over wiring diagrams.
“On the bright side,” Didge said, “the Commune is eager to buy your mixed-media sculpture.”
The Union shuddered.
