I, Alien

reason—and I’d have a serious problem continuing my work in cultural anthropology; indeed, I might even be expelled.

They didn’t consider my reason excellent enough.

“A survey was performed there eight hundred primary rotations ago. No civilization is going to change drastically in so short a time. There is no evidence whatsoever to indicate that this species is developing technologically at a greater rate than any previously known technology-using species.”

Just who did I think I was, questioning the accepted wisdom of my field—me, a mere student, of limited experience. What made me think that this new species was so different from the dozens of other known, thoroughly-studied species?

Somehow, “gut instinct” hadn’t seemed a particularly politic answer at that moment.

It’s cold comfort to me now to know that my fears were absolutely justified—the preliminary survey was even more out of date than I had feared. The rate of change of this society is staggering. It’s grim satisfaction to know that, in learning this, I’ve already made a significant discovery—and I haven’t even begun my initial research. I plan on saying a very loud (and most scientifically phrased) “I told you so” when I face my final exam board.

I am woefully unprepared. The trinkets and toys I’m equipped with, suitable for a pre-mechanized society, are totally unsuitable for a culture at this level of development. Instead of early explorations into metal smelting, these people are essaying their first steps into molecular-level manipulation of biotechnology. My gadgets are useless—simple devices intended to startle and amaze a hostile group just long enough to allow me to escape, or to lure a timid folk from hiding, nothing more. Such things are as out of place here as a medicine woman with her healing broths and spirit chants would be in one of this city’s hospitals.

And I don’t like my body. It’s weak and clumsy now. I have to be so careful when I move in this awkward, heavy gravity. And only two hands! It amazes me the natives were able to develop any sort of technology at all. At least they have opposable digits on both hands.

My Supervisor isn’t particularly sympathetic to my situation. “I would think you’d be delighted, Student Candidate. This is the opportunity you said you were waiting for, a chance to make a significant contribution to our field. You have an entire world’s worth of development at your feet. A tenth-span certainly will not be long enough”—I clench the communication Link in my hand—”but it will serve as a beginning. You had best make the very most of your every moment there. Communication ending.”

Communication is expensive and must be kept brief. Perhaps it’s just as well. One does not gain honor by being disrespectful to one’s Supervisor. And I must not forget, I am representing my species at the prestigious institute of learning I attend. The Mother Supreme pointed this out to me during my audience with her just before I left.

“Very few of us have ventured off-planet. Do not forget that you are an ambassador, even though you do not bear the formal title. For many—indeed, perhaps most—of the species you come into contact with, you will be the first of our kind they have ever met. Conduct yourself with dignity and bring us honor.”

I bowed before her and backed out of her presence, grateful that protocol did not permit me to speak.

My Supervisor is of the school of thought that believes in interaction with a species, provided there is no interference with the society. Thus, I underwent extensive—though reversible—surgery to adapt my body to the conditions on this world, so that I may breathe and move unassisted. Surgery that also changes my appearance so that I blend in with the species I’m studying.

Of course such surgery is costly—as will be the procedure to restore my natural form. Be sure my parents made this clear to me.

“We’re having to borrow heavily against our Family shares to pay for this,” grumbled my father. “I don’t see why you need to be operated on in the first place. Don’t most cultural anthropologists use skin projectors?”

I patiently explain, yet again. “My Supervisor feels it’s vital to her technique of close study of other peoples. ‘There’s no substitute for real interaction,’ she keeps saying.”

“Sounds like a typical scholar to me. No head for finance… no experience of the real world…” His grumbles die away.

“She’s one of the foremost experts in the field,” I say. “I’m extremely lucky that she agreed to accept me.” My parents, concerned but supportive after my first refusal—my clan is known for its indulgence of its young—had been gravely displeased after my second refusal, so there really was no choice left for me.

“Yes, and an extremely high Supervisor’s Fee she charges, too. You’d damned well better win some of those academic awards you talk about and bring us honor.”

“Of course he will,” says my mother soothingly. “He’s our son. He’s always lived up to our expectations and beyond.” She beams proudly. “And he will again.”

Yes, I will. I will be a dutiful child and do well. My father complains about expense but it’s pure ritual. I’m expected eventually to make good on all the loans and fees that are paid out on my behalf. Duty and obligation, over and over, the watch-words of my culture.

Maybe that’s why I went into this field of study— to learn about other societies and see if they’re any freer. The crushing burden I owe my parents and my clan…

These are unworthy thoughts and I’m glad my family is not privy to them. I should not be having such selfish feelings. A mature individual is able to school his feelings, focus on his duties, and take satisfaction from fulfilling his obligations. Obviously I have a long way to go to reach maturity.

This culture is as unlike my own as any storyteller could imagine. Chaotic, noisy, the natives rush frenetically about, ever busy, even at night—the lights of the city drown out the stars overhead. I spend hours, too many of them, by the ocean—this is a seaport—when I should be in the libraries and museums, learning about these creatures. But I find the frantic pace they live at overwhelming. The sea brings me a measure of peace as I watch it ebb and flow and crash and murmur. It reminds me of home, even the natives swimming—they call it swimming, at least; to me it is clumsy thrashing, fighting the water rather than being one with it.

I take out the Link and stare at it. Among the decorative elements on its surface there is one stud that is meant for Recall, in case of such unforeseen and serious emergencies such as civil unrest, natural catastrophe, or war. Definitely not for use by homesick scholars.

We were originally a seafaring culture. Perhaps because the sea is so vast, and accidents are so random and sudden, my kind developed a formal and structured society: every situation noted, every situation with its appropriate actions, every situation accounted for.

I know in my heart I don’t fit in very well. I liked to test myself against the sea too often. This was a sorrow to my family. When I should have been attending to my share of the clan duties, I was inattentive, my mind on the waters.

I am ashamed of this. I owe my family much, for they have supported me in the study of other cultures, a study I love. Many clans decide the paths their youthful members should tread, without taking personal preferences into account. But I am fortunate, for my clan is different. Our Mother Supreme is very old and very wise, and feels that children work harder and more willingly—and thus are more likely to do well—when they work at something they enjoy. So she indulges us. I owe it to her and to my parents to repay their trust and confidence in me.

I’m beginning to feel smothered under the weight of all these obligations and expectations.

I was daring today. The waves were high, crashing on the shore. I longed so much for the feel of the sea that I dared to venture into the water, yes, into the water in this temporary form I wear. I swam.

I attempted to swim, rather. Oh, but it is a feeble reed, this body. Clumsy, awkward in the water, un- streamlined, no harmony with the currents. Worst of all, no way to stay below the surface for more than seconds at a time—as I discovered, choking and spluttering. Of course, no water-breathing structures. Why didn’t they warn me against this?

Because it never occurred to them. When the thrice-ignorant fools who surveyed this world did so, they reported no cities by the sea. I am certain they never bothered to look.

I staggered from the water and collapsed on the beach. I was fortunate it was early morning, and the beach was almost deserted. There was no one to see my humiliation.

But as I regained my breath, I noticed there were a few swimmers out there. No, wait, not swimming. They were balanced on long narrow boards, balanced on the very crests of the waves surging to shore, balanced like dancers.

My jaw dropped. My people have never even dreamed of such a thing. These