I, Alien

people call it “surfing.”

I inquire at the library. “I wonder if you can help me. I’d like to learn about the history of surfing, and I don’t really know where to begin.” When I explain I was inspired watching the surfers at the nearby beach, the librarian laughs.

“Oh, we don’t have serious surfing here—those are just baby waves. I think a tape of last year’s Hawaiian championships has just come back in…” The helpful librarian brings me audiovisual records of surfing contests held in other parts of the world. I’m astounded when I view them. The local waves are indeed just “babies,” and the surfers I saw are far from expert. The award-winning surfers do things I wouldn’t have believed possible. Of course, I find the size of the waves they’re riding almost impossible to believe as well, but the librarian assures me these are factual records, no trickery involved.

“Not like that new movie—I hear they used a lot of special effects in that one to make the waves look so huge.”

Movies? Special effects? I decide to leave that for another day. I want to view the sequence called “shooting the curl” again.

There is clearly more to this species than I realized.

I wander the streets. Fortunately, the weather is mild this time of year and I can sleep outdoors, provided I stay out of the way of others. I am equipped with food concentrates and there are public water sources. But this is only a short-term solution; I need a place to store my equipment and belongings, to archive my research records, and—most importantly— to have a little solitude and be able to meditate. It is only by merest chance that I am lucky enough to stumble into a niche where I can support myself and study this culture more closely.

I see a street performer, who entertains the passing crowd; in return they drop money into a basket at his feet. He’s a conjurer—misleading the audience by the skill of his hands and his clever patter. I realize my gadgets will be useful after all. It appears magic tricks can be entertaining, even if the culture no longer believes in magic… or at least claims it doesn’t. And a street performer doesn’t need an elaborate background history.

I become a magician. My tricks with lights and smokes and colors fascinate them, and they pay well, far better than I expected. They come again and again, bringing friends. I discover, to my relief, I don’t have to talk. Indeed, my silence seems to add to my mystique. And I learn, also to my relief, that my evasive answers to questions after my performances are considered entirely appropriate. No one really wants to know how it’s done.

My Supervisor is pleased with my inventiveness. “Well done, Student Candidate! I believe your achievement is unique—an illusionist in a technological society. Continue your research—this will make a fine presentation at the next colloquium. Communication ending.”

Research. I should be spending much of my time studying this world’s past and present knowledge. Its history, its science and art, everything about it. But there’s so much knowledge. I could spend far more than a tenth-span just assimilating the knowledge of the one library near the apartment I now rent, let alone every library in the city. I could spend a lifetime.

I like performing; it’s much more fun than doing research. It’s rewarding to see the awe on the faces of the audience and hear the delight in their laughter at the climax of a trick. Children are the most fun of all. Their eyes grow huge and they squeal with joy and clap their hands. I find it impossible to resist them.

I watch my spectators carefully, and learn better pacing and timing. I begin to study magicians and the history of illusions in the library, and try to develop better tricks. I become a fixture among the street performers and begin to make friends. I have the usual cover story ready: a traveler from a distant country, learning about this one. Friendships form easily in this culture; apparently there is nothing like the cautious negotiation of mutual obligations that accompanies such a relationship on my world.

I have become such a fixture, in fact, that I’m beginning to recognize some of the regular attendees of my performances. The other artists tease me—they say I have a “fan following.” (The concept is new to me, and I learn it has nothing to do with devices for moving air.) These “fans” strike up friendly conversations with me. One of them invites me “to the bar for a drink.” I accept, somewhat nervously.

My nervousness was unnecessary. Bars are fascinating; there’s no equivalent on my world. There, one can have relaxed social interaction with close family members of the same age cohort, but not with those of different ages—and certainly not with complete strangers in a public place. Let alone while ingesting intoxicants. I would never have believed that a social species could be so casual about such things.

But here… I can go into the Overtime Bar and Benny, the owner and bartender, will yell a greeting over the din of the chat and broadcasts, and have my favorite beer—I’ve become very fond of Coors, an extraordinary brew —waiting for me by the time I sit down. There are always people ready to discuss anything, from politics to sports to entertainment to local gossip to, well, anything. Invaluable for a cultural anthropologist. All I need to do is listen and pay for an occasional round of beers. Everyone loves a good listener; I’m one of the most popular regulars in the place.

I now know what movies are: a flat, nondimensional audiovisual projection; holographic projection is still in its infancy. This species is ingenious, I have to admit; it never occurred to me that one could use such projections to record fictional stories. Movies are a very popular form of entertainment in this society, and there are dozens available in a variety of genres at any time. I plan to sample each genre at least once. The one I saw today is classified as an “action picture”; apparently this involves much gunfire and racing about in automobiles. Why automobiles—and not bicycles, which would seem to me to be a more accurate measure of the stamina and determination, and thus the heroism, of the characters involved—is not clear to me. My new-found friends at the Overtime tell me that if I want to see special effects, I should sample the latest in the “science fiction” or “fantasy” genres; I’m not sure of the distinction between the two.

My Supervisor interrupts me as I am enthusiastically describing the latest Trek film. She is displeased with me. “You should be studying the culture, not immersing yourself in it, Student Candidate. By all means, attend one of these… movies. Attend several. Entertainments, particularly fiction entertainments, reveal much about a culture’s values and way of life, far more than their creators recognize. The assumptions behind the fiction’s underpinnings; the styles of dress, adornment, transport, housing…”

Despite the expense, the Supervisor is carried away into lecture mode, lectures I have heard many times through my student career. I find my attention drifting. There is a new James Bond film coming, and a popular young actor is taking over the legendary role. There’s been a lot of discussion about it at the Overtime, with much speculation as to how he will handle the character. Will he have the sly, double-entendre charm of Roger Moore? The more serious and subtle sophistication of Pierce Brosnan? The bluntly honest and somewhat primitive style of the original, Sean Connery? I’m a Brosnan fan myself, but I’m looking forward to seeing how the new actor interprets the famous spy.

It opens next week—I can’t wait to see it.

* * *

“Hey—I’ve got a spare ticket to today’s game. Want to go see your very first baseball game? It’s the season opener.” Dave, one of my fellow buskers, makes the invitation. I haven’t any idea what “baseball” is, but of course I accept; a study opportunity like this is invaluable.

It’s as unlike the dignified sporting events on my own world as could be imagined. Attendees wear the colors of the team they support, of course, but in a wild variety of fashions. Some of them actually paint their face and body in team colors—unthinkable in my species, but I admit having fur is a barrier to such a form of self-expression; this species has generally hairless skin. (I wasn’t able to determine whether paint is acceptable in lieu of clothing in this social situation. This society has taboos about dress and undress that are utterly confusing.)

The din is incredible. There is noisy music. There is shouting. There are announcements about players and their statistics. People react loudly to the play on the field—some even have portable amplification devices to make certain they are heard. There are vendors hawking food, beverages, and mementos. And to my shock, complete strangers will assist in such transactions by passing money or purchases back and forth the packed rows of spectators.

Despite such apparent chaos, I find the crowd around me is genial, and happily willing to explain the game to a newcomer. Though the finer points elude me, I do learn the city’s team is called the Giants (though Giant what, I don’t know), and that they’re doing well in “the pennant race,” whatever that might be. We cheer and applaud