I, Alien

when a player performs well, and shout rudely at the officials when we disagree with their officiating. At first I’m reluctant to be so discourteous, but am assured by my companions that this is all part of the game, and indeed, the officials seem to take no notice. I get so involved that I find myself on my feet, shouting with everyone else, when a Giants’ player hits the gaming-winning “home-ee.”

I had a wonderful time. The next time I go, I’m buying myself a team jersey.

“Student Candidate, you have spent enough time studying this culture. It is time you moved on to another.”

“But—”

The Supervisor ignores my protests. “You’ve become fond of these natives and their style of life. I warned you about this before you departed—it’s a common reaction for a student’s first time in the field, though I had not expected it of someone as gifted as you. Remember, these beings are not friends, they are study subjects. Do you understand?”

“Yes, Supervisor.”

“Good. Make plans to move on. Let me know within three local days what your destination will be. Communication ending.”

I’m upset. I find my way to the ocean and watch as the full moon rises over the waters, brilliant even in the light-washed sky.

I don’t want to leave this city. It is heresy to disagree with one’s Supervisor, but she’s wrong: I do have friends here. Heck, I have fans here.

I take out the Link and stare at it. Then I put it back in my pocket and look out at the crashing waves for a long time.

Much is expected of me. I am a Prime. Always, I have been given the first choice at meals, the first choice of playthings, of worship position on holy days. I have been allowed to choose which course of study to follow. I have been given first choice of mates.

But “choice” for me is not the same as it is for these busy, chaotic, noisy human beings. For them, choice really is a choice. Even so simple a thing as food: any individual here may choose a meal, any meal, at any of a myriad of eateries catering to a wide range of tastes and income levels.

My choices were not like that. Clan and caste, honor and obligation, all form ever-narrowing circles limiting my range of choices.

Here, life partners select each other. My selection was limited to Primes of appropriate age from appropriate clans. And my parents and the Mother Supreme discussed my preferences—they care for me and want me to be happy. But far more than my personal happiness is at stake in this. Political alliances play a role; status of the particular clan of a candidate; financial means; and of prime importance, fertility, for children are the foundation of a clan. It turned out that my “choice” and I were not compatible.

The Mother Supreme was gentle with me. “Child”— she used the honorific that meant an especially beloved child, to show that she attached no blame to me—”such incompatibility happens. It is a bitter blow. We will make the necessary regret gifts to the other clan. And you will make another choice.”

Regret gifts. My clan is known for its impeccable courtesy, but naturally rumors immediately circulated that the infertility was my lack and fewer clans were eager to offer candidates. Eventually a suitable mate was found for me. The preliminary ceremonies were performed before I left; our final union will take place when I return. And of course I will have to assume the burden of recompense for the regret gifts—it is the courteous thing to do.

Damn courtesy. Is there no room for me in my life?

“Your disobedience is unheard of, Student Candidate. I insist you move on to another culture at once.” My Supervisor is angry with me. Her crest has even changed color.

“Forgive me, Supervisor.” I use the most respectful tone I can summon. “You are right—I have allowed myself to become fond of this culture. I see now that my objectivity has been compromised, as you feared. I apologize.” I watch carefully and see her intense coloring begin to fade. “I will gather my belongings and records and move on at once.”

“See that you do so, or I will Recall you immediately.”

I realize that I must act quickly or yet another “choice” will be forced upon me. For there is another aspect to Recall—it can be activated at the other end as well. Occasionally, in the long history of the study of other cultures, scholars like myself have “gone native”—a rarity, admittedly, but the institute is meticulous in planning for every contingency. Except surveys, I think wryly.

“It will take me several days to pack my belongings, sever my housing agreement, and arrange transportation. The island archipelago that looks the most intriguing is at some distance from this land mass. I will contact you as soon as I arrive there. Communication ending.”

I go down to the seashore. It’s a stormy day, cold and blustery, with few people on the sand or in the water. I sit on a log and stare out over the steely waves.

I take out the Link. The Recall field is effective at some distance, I have been told, and is tuned to me alone. (It would be unthinkable to accidentally bring along unintended passengers.)

I reach back and hurl it as far as I can into the roaring surf. The currents here are particularly fierce. It will be carried away in the endless roll and beat of tides.

Perhaps I will be thought of as one of those scholars who paid the ultimate price for attempting to enlarge my people’s body of knowledge. My clan will mourn my loss; I was a promising youth tragically snuffed out before I had a chance to fulfill my potential. Other clans will sorrow with my family.

Or perhaps my Supervisor won’t be deceived by the dying of the Link’s signal. She will remember my behavior and report it to the governing board. My parents will be informed that I “went native,” and will be shamed. My disappearance will bring dishonor to my clan.

I realize I don’t care.

A great weight lifts from my shoulders. For the first time in my life, I’m utterly free! No obligations or duties to the endless line of the generations. I feel light and giddy. School’s out!

There’s a Padres verses Giants game this afternoon— an important one in the pennant race. Benny’s pulling two-for-one drafts and offering hot wings to all comers who show up in team colors. I must go home and get my Giants’ cap and jersey.

I may even learn to surf one of these days.

XENOFORMING EARTH by Tom Gerencer

I TOOK A MOMENT to construct myself from stray carbon in the atmosphere, since I’d been spending time, the last few days, as patterns in the static electricity across the surface of the television screen, the drapes, and every other ungrounded surface in the room, including the cat. Admittedly an incognito method of relaxing, but every time the maid came, I got nervous.

I was on a planet called the Earth, out past Cen-taurus. They had named it after some dirt. I’d arrived there some weeks ago, in the center of a masked implosion, and had quickly set up shop. I’d rented an apartment, bought a car, and had some business cards made up. I’d also altered my entire makeup for the trip.

I’d changed my physiology, my body type, my language, taste in clothes, political opinions, and I had developed a proficiency at gargling. I’d even grafted a mild seafood allergy into my anatomy, just to round the picture out. Still, “a rose by any other name,” or so they say on Earth, and that goes double, I am sure, for aliens.

I’d been sent to catch a criminal. The Naag, to be exact. A purely mental form of life, his ancestors had not been small and furry animals or even large and slimy ones, but catchy songs caught in the heads of other sentient beings. They had evolved from there into entirely independent superegos, in complete control of whatever organisms they decided to possess. Literally, the Naag were a parasitical and highly specialized variety of guilt.

The one I had been sent to catch had claimed to be on Earth spending vacation time “in some of the planet’s