What’s in a number?

by Dick Braco

Ambassador Robert Smith of Earth turned to his wife as the transport landed on Planetary Contact #451 and announced that he was planning to make a name for himself in this least understood of all the inhabitable worlds.

"One besides Smith?" she kidded him.

"I’m going to make you proud of me, Elena," he tried to say over the tumult of the landing gear’s descent, but she was forced to read his lips.

"I’d love you no matter what your name was," she shouted back, then hugged his arm tightly as she had always done, through every form of alien touchdown and stabilization procedure.

They left their seats when the attendant from 451 motioned to them. Her boneless arms seemed to wave in front of endless bright yellow hair, beckoning like grain on a Nebraska plain. Robert’s memories of home had been triggered by many of the more spectacular, and some of the more mundane, sights in outer space. He thought ruefully now that he was a long way from seeing Cornhusker football again.

Elena grabbed his carrying case and her handbag from the overhead rack and looked up at the newly appointed ambassador to 451. "You always said we’d make it someday," she said. "I didn’t expect it to be halfway across the galaxy, but I can’t complain. You deliver what you promise, Robert Smith. And I love you for that."

"I always thought you admired the quarterback in me." He stood aside and let his wife take up position slightly ahead of him, as was the custom on their new home.

She kissed him lightly on the cheek as she passed, stretching on the tiptoes of her travel boots to do so. "I admired the sticker in you. The guy who had his back to the 5-yard line and never gave up."

"I never gave up because I could hear you cheering for me. You believed I could make fairy tale endings come true. You were the strong one."

"And I’m still twice as strong as any woman you know, Robert Smith. I’ll see us through this dry spell. You just follow me and don’t worry. If you stumble, I’ll catch you."

"Be easier if I wasn’t five feet behind you."

"Come on," she said. "Let’s get out of the huddle and get moving down the field."

They walked into brighter and brighter light, putting on the magenta sunglasses they had been issued by the off-world customs unit. She felt the air grow lighter and the humidity drop. It was like the Arabian Desert out there, she knew, but still she couldn’t help whispering over her shoulder, "What next?"

Robert answered her with the standard travel guide summary of which he had yet to read anything but the first page. "First they shower us with seeds from the most successful crops of the past year. They have school children sing us a song, and then they ask us to recite the alphabet backwards."

Elena sang out the 24-letter sequence just as she had rehearsed it. Robert applauded in appreciation. "Just like a native," he yelled ahead. "And with a lovely Omaha accent."

"I hope you’re not kidding me about this custom, Ambassador Bob, because I’d hate to be in your pajamas if it’s the first night on a strange planet and you wind up sleeping alone."

"I wouldn’t kid about the ancient and honored traditions of people who look like canister vacuum cleaners choking on drapery, but don’t tell anyone I said that."

"Hush," said Elena. "The door to the receiving area is about to open. You wouldn’t want their first sight of the new ambassador to be his wife kicking him in the shins."

And with that remark still hanging in the air, the alien door was swung wide.

*****************************************************************

Once in their temporary quarters and unpacked, Robert and Elena began the arduous task of picking the "seeds of the season" out of each other’s hair.

"Yours is easier," she said. "The seeds don’t get stuck in your bristle brush hair."

"It would be better to cut yours off," he said. "You could explain to these lionesses that Earth women believe in airing out their scalps every so often, and this is your year to join the bald eagle club."

She hit him with a pillow from the alien bed. It went flying like a solar kite in a photon storm. The lighter gravity made it possible to throw certain objects across the room when needed, when they would not have considered doing so on Earth. The pillows bounced against opaque window films that turned to clear liquid when touched.

"I prefer curtains," said Elena, who believed in keeping a neighbor’s view blocked by at least two layers of good quality cloth at all times. "But I suppose," she lingered over the words with some delight at her new surroundings, "I will adjust!"

She bounced experimentally on the bed and found herself rebounding toward her husband like a party balloon with almost neutral buoyancy. Robert heard her laughter and turned to catch her just as she nudged him in the back, about three feet off the ground. "You must promise me two things," she said as he held her like a bride over a threshold.

"Never to turn my back on you in low-gravity situations?"

"No, Mr. Ambassador-To-Be." Her newly serious tone had gained Robert’s attention. "I want you to promise that you will adapt, along with me, to any changes that come into our lives here in this lightheaded corner of the universe. We will back each other up no matter what happens."

"Done," he said, rather too quickly for Elena, but she accepted his determination for the time being.

"And second?" he asked.

She turned her eyes downward. "That you will take care not to accidentally bounce me out of the bed tonight." A small corner of her mouth turned up mischievously.

At that moment the door to the hallway became electrified and turned from gray to white, announcing a visitor, and the Adjutant General of 451 stepped through.

Robert dropped Elena to an upright position, and they stood next to each other holding hands.

The Adjutant General was, it turned out, only one of the prime minister’s many assistants, although he appeared to be a particularly large and cumbersome one. Low gravity had made his life’s travails easier, but dressing him would be a job under any circumstances. Robert thought the Adjutant must have been celebrating a successful crop for several years running.

The adjutant parted his cascade of hip-length yellow hair and reached out with one of the arms that Robert judged to be about seven feet in length. "My name is 212," he said. "I am pleased to be at your service, Mr. Ambassador."

Robert leaned forward and grasped the orange appendage that served as 212’s hand. It was on the cool side for hands, but warmer than you might expect a tentacle to be. Elena grasped it, too, as they had both been taught to do.

They said together, "The pleasure is ours, and all of Earth’s."

The Adjutant let go his grasp and recoiled his great arm. The yellow hair fell back into place. "The Prime Minister hopes you will be able to join him at his residence tomorrow evening for a welcoming reception. There will be a dinner in your honor."

"You may tell him we accept," said Robert.

"Oh, of course we accept. Robert, the Adjutant has come to help us get ready."

The Adjutant sighed, "May I sit down? It has been a long climb to the top of my profession, and I need to rest my overly ambitious bones."

"It’s comforting to know you have bones in there somewhere," said Robert, quite without thinking.

Elena shot him a quizzical glance. "My husband is just testing to see if the people of 451 have the sense of humor they are renowned for."

"I can assure you that one of my breathing cavities is convulsed in rapture at this very moment. While it is enjoying itself, let me provide you with an itinerary."

Elena relaxed and sat down next to her husband.

"First, you will bring your credentials and present them formally to the Prime Minister at his residence. Then we will go downstairs and you will be presented to the other officials of state. Then the Prime Minister will offer a toast and you reciprocate."

"Is that all?" Robert asked.

The Adjutant adjusted himself in his chair. "Then we eat," he said, and his other diaphragm added a brief quake of laughter.

"We seem to have made a friend in our first hour on 451," said Elena.

"We like humanoids here. We find them to be a little stiff, like their handshakes, but their hearts are in the right place. I mean, that is, you do have hearts, don’t you?"

Robert just laughed, realizing that the tables had been turned. Elena smiled and pointed to hers.

"But if I might just offer one piece of advice to a young couple just starting out in the ambassador business, now that we are friends, that is?"

"Yes," said Robert.

"By all means," said Elena.

"As you know we go by numbers here. You should pick one, at least for official purposes. Names are used only to hurl insults at our enemies."

Robert looked puzzled. "You mean it is bad form to have a real name?"

"Judge for yourselves. In our language, Smith means ‘one who speaks at length without meaning.’ And Robert means ‘horse breath’."

It was about thirty minutes later that Robert put his fist down on the alien table. "I draw the line at losing my identity," he said to Elena once they were alone again. "I’ve suffered months of training in a low-G chamber. I’m wearing clothes I don’t like and eating food I can’t digest. Soon I’ll be asked to let my hair grow long and paint my fingernails orange."

Elena held up her fingers in the still too-bright light. "I’m definitely having mine done first thing in the morning. I didn’t know you cared about being color coordinated."

Robert ignored her mocking and stood rubbing his sore hand in the middle of the room. "I will not change my name," he repeated, "even if 212 turns purple pronouncing it."

"That should make a pretty picture for the embassy press to send back home. I can see the headlines: ‘Ambassador announces he is in love with himself. Minister faints dead away.’ She feigned shock for a moment, then turned serious.

"They will be on the interstellar communicator before you spill the first drop of gravy on their linen. You have another career picked out, I assume? One that you would prefer to antagonizing the newly embraced friends of Earth? Something you would enjoy more than embarrassing yourself, your wife, and all of Homo sapiens?"

"I suppose we could be reassigned?"

"You suppose? I’ve got news for you, cowboy. In case you’ve lost your star chart, there aren’t any known civilizations further from the Beltway than this one."

Robert hung his head. "I don’t really have equine features?"

Elena fumed. "Just stubbornness!"

******************************************************

On the next morning, a line of dignitaries preceded Ambassador Smith out of the temporary residence and into the searing yellow heat of 451. They walked in a line down the middle of the street, so that the crowds could touch all of them and onlookers from the buildings could shower them with seeds.

Leading the way was Adjutant 212 in a golden ceremonial robe that flowed majestically in the light day breeze. Elena was next, dressed in purple, which was the color of most plant life on 451. Then came Robert, in glowing mustard gold, the color of seed pods when broken open.

Adjutant 212 had explained it to them as they stood at the gateway to the residence. "It is customary for the woman to precede the male on our world. Women embody creative power and energy that is prominent in our literature. Men come second, and then the other sexes, if there are any."

"Other sexes?" asked Elena.

The adjutant looked pained. "Surely you have more . . ."

Elena shook her head.

Some over the shoulder orders were given to a lieutenant using the home language. Robert thought he saw three members of the parade party being siphoned off and herded back inside.

"First things first," said 212, back in his interstellar English. "Later on I have a few biology texts I want you to look at. Possibly you will consider translating them for your scientists. Now, back to business. Have you each chosen a number yet?"

Robert wanted his old Nebraska number 12, but that was already in use by the prime minister’s son. Robert had been forced to ask for time out to talk with his wife.

"I’m willing to change to suit these people, but really, I hope it doesn’t get back to my old buddy George McNale."

"I never heard you mention him before," said Elena.

"He was the second string quarterback. I had to date his sister before he’d let me have his number."

"Oh, pooh," said Elena. "We’re 50,000 light years from George McNale, and his sister is probably married with six kids by now. So who cares? Why don’t you just ask old 212 what a good number would be?"

But when Robert finally popped the question, the Adjutant just shook his giant head. "Bad form to offer to name another sentient being. The power to name implies ownership. You must not ask me to name someone who wishes to call me a friend."

"I guess I’ll take 16 then." It was the number he had traded with George McNale.

"Done," said the Adjutant.

By the time the schoolchildren began singing to Robert and Elena, the visitors from Earth were exhausted and sweat-stained. Not even the light gravity had made the journey easier. It actually took more effort to keep from bouncing into each other than it would have taken just to walk normally.

"What are they singing?" asked Robert.

Elena, who had studied the language for a longer time, translated a few of the lines:

"Welcome, welcome

new winds form the field,

bring a new season,

filled with great yield."

She tossed her head and laughed. "I made it rhyme," she said. It wasn’t easy, but I like a challenge."

"Like the time you helped me study for celestial navigation class. I asked you out on a date because you knew the names of all the stars. Even the ones that had numbers."

"Getting A’s was my ticket out here," she said. "I couldn’t throw footballs through a linebacker’s arms."

"It is hard to do, you know."

"So is memorizing star charts."

"I believe you. I’m just tired now. I’ve got seeds of success in every opening of my body, but I don’t feel very successful. My stomach’s floating just below my Adam’s apple, and I could use a malted milk shake."

"I don’t believe they have refrigerators here on 451," said Elena. "They use spices to preserve everything. So I’m afraid there will be no ice cream on this field trip."

The sun beat down on Robert’s forehead until he could no longer sweat or lick his lips. He heard the voices of the schoolchildren as they waved their miniature tentacles. He felt lightheaded and befuddled. What was that they were singing?

"Those who travel beyond a star,

can feel no better where you are?"

"Where am I?" mumbled Robert, beginning to sway.

"What’s that?" asked Elena. "Stand up straight. The children are starting to point their tentacles at you."

"I could really use that milk shake now," said Robert, then he slumped onto Elena and she barely caught him before he hit the sand-encrusted stone of the street..

"The things you learn about your husband when you’re away from home," she said, smiling bravely. She held him next to her with one arm and waved politely to the children before calling for help.

The hospital in the capital city said they would be happy to look up earthlings in their guide to interstellar disorders. Was Earth spelled with an initial letter ‘U’ or an ‘I’?

Elena thought it would be better if Robert just stayed on the Prime Minister’s sitting room couch. The image of a doctor flickered on the wall over Robert’s prone body. "We don’t usually bring sick people to the hospital," he said. "Too much risk of cross-contamination. It’s better to isolate the illness."

"I don’t think he has a microbial infection," said Elena.

The view screen tilted down and the alien doctor’s face grew larger as he drew nearer at his end. "Perhaps he has had an allergic reaction to the seeds?"

"I think he’s just been out in the sun too long," said Elena.

The doctor seemed skeptical. "Is that possible?" he croaked.

Robert sat up by himself in about an hour and Elena poured water into a glass for him. "Is this the same water we have on Earth?" he asked.

"Dihydrogen oxide," she assured him. "The same as they put in swimming pools at the YMCA."

"I miss the smell of chlorine," he said.

"Drink slowly and don’t spill," she said.

"I miss being able to plop down in a chair."

"You’ll get used to floating down."

"I miss dark and stormy nights."

Elena assumed he was delirious. Surely he knew that a full scale night would not arrive in this region for another six months. "I’ll order a sauna, if they know what one is. We’ll have a limousine with tinted glass. I promise you."

She did not want to appear desperate, but it was a long bus ride back home to Omaha.

"Will our children all be fat and have leather skins like 212’s?" Robert’s eyes rolled up to Elena, who for the first time hesitated to reply. There was a thin and airy wisp of doubt in her voice when she did summon up an answer.

"I don’t know, Robert. I hadn’t thought about having babies in space. We’ve got to get you ready to meet the Prime Minister. Then if you can make it through dinner, we’ll be halfway home."

"Home," he said. "Yes, I miss . . ."

"I know you do." She patted him on the head while he struggled to sip the water. "I know."

******************************************************

Prime Minister 14 had been preparing for their meeting, they were told, for several hours. He was a taller, more tightly laced version of the full-figured native. It did appear to his guests that he was wearing some type of corset that emphasized his height at the expense of making him top-heavy. He teetered slightly on his chair when it swiveled, and his words seemed to be squeezed out carefully. His lips formed the sounds as painstakingly as the mouth of a balloon with a slow leak.

"I am glad to see you have recovered so quickly from your illness, Ambassador. May I assume that ash gray is not your normal skin color?"

"Our skin varies," said Robert. "Usually, when exposed to sunlight, we turn darker as a precaution against ultraviolet rays."

"A useful trait. My wife has a similar capability. She is normally a light violet, but turns deep purple when amorously aroused. I find it quite enthralling to watch."

"Will we be meeting your wife?" asked Elena.

"She is polishing her persona even as we speak, in preparation for the dinner. For now you will have to be content with studying my rather dull bronze epidermis." The Prime Minister paused and turned the microscope of his conversation onto Elena. "I note that you, Mrs. 16, have darker skin than your husband and were apparently not so affected by our sun?"

"I was born on a farm and spent my childhood outdoors. I feel somewhat at home here." That was stretching it, but she was practicing her diplomatic training. The effect was not lost on the Prime Minister.

"Very gracious of you not to call us a wind-blown sand pit. That’s what most of the tourists say on their way out. I understand your world is three-quarters water, as ours once was. Our scientists believe these long arms were used to catch fish millions of years ago." He brought his tentacle arms out from behind the desk and played in the air for a moment.

"Perhaps your race has some leftovers from its own formative period? Appendages that serve no purpose, I mean?"

"I’m not sure," said Robert, squirming uncomfortably in the overly large chair. He was not used to thinking of any part of himself as being unnecessary.

"That organ in the middle of your face, for instance," said the Prime Minister, pointing one of his tentacles at Robert’s nose. "What is that?"

"It’s for breathing," said Robert. "Nasal membranes help recapture moisture and a coating of mucous helps to screen out germs."

"Fascinating adaptation. A bold and decisive move on the part of your genes. You’ve turned your back on the sea, then?"

"Pretty much." Robert wondered if he would ever be floating on his back in a real sea again, and he wondered if it was obvious that he felt so out of place.

"You should try breathing through your ears, as we do," said the Prime Minister. "I find it very satisfying."

Robert was still worried about how his Eustachian tubes would handle the task of being elected primary respiratory path, when Elena prompted him, "Perhaps we had better present the letter now."

"Of course." Robert brought out the diplomatic pouch and inside it his credentials from the International Society on Earth. The desk was wide, but the Prime Minister’s arm easily crossed the expanse and exposed agile rows of tiny suckers that quickly latched onto the documents.

"I see you were a personal friend of your president’s back in your college days."

"We were on the same athletic team."

"Yes, football. I’ve been reading about it. Tell me, Mr. Ambassador, do you think that a race of beings with seven-foot arms would make good wide receivers?"

Robert did not want to flunk his first on-the-job diplomatic test, but he couldn’t help remarking, "You look more like tight ends to me."

When the Prime Minister got done shaking and quivering with glee at that joke, he turned the mood to business.

"Now tell me, what will be your goals as ambassador from Earth?"

Robert, who could write a mission statement like mothers write excuses for their children to stay home sick from school, was prepared for this one.

"My mission is to foster greater understanding, coordinated development of ties between our two peoples, and mutually beneficial exploration of our common strengths."

The Prime Minister nodded. "I think I like the joke about football better, but we’ll work on our commonalities later." He turned to Elena. "Mrs. 16," he said in what seemed to be a more relaxed tone, "what do you propose to foster, coordinate, and explore?"

Elena was pleased to set out her plans. "I would hope to use your university library for research, meet your students and scientists, and get to know your people."

"You are the anthropologist in the household?"

"Professor of Cultural Anthropology," added Robert proudly. "Elena gave up a an appointment as head of the department for a chance to come here and see what other academics only dream about."

"You are truly a pioneer, Mrs. 16. I know our planet is a little out of the way for you both. I appreciate your willingness to take on the task. We will try to make your stay as entertaining and educational as possible."

Robert was wearing down a bit with all the talk. He wished there had been more fresh air on this wagon train to the stars. Maybe, he thought, he could have prepared for the arid conditions by taking naps in a clothes dryer. An unshareable joke.

The Prime Minister’s squeaky voice awoke Robert from his trance. At first he could not believe what he heard, so he asked for the last line to be rephrased. The Prime Minister obliged with good humor. "I said, when you are feeling better, we must organize a game of touch football on the capitol lawn."

In another hour, the dining room was alive with the twisting and turning of a hundred diplomats churning their way to the welcoming tables. Robert wondered how anyone could move through a crowded room without such a thing as an elbow, but he was too tired to ask. The roiling air became hypnotic.

Dinner was a large plate of assorted vegetables, just the right size for flipping over one’s head and snaring with a 20-inch long tongue, if you had one.

"I’m sorry we were unable to provide you with knives and forks," said the Prime Minister. "Please feel free to toss the food directly into your mouths if that makes you feel more at home."

Robert tried this for a while, and Elena wiped the debris off his chin when he missed. After a while he leaned back in his chair and began rubbing his neck. "I think I pulled something," he said. Then he moaned and fainted forward onto the table. His nose neatly speared a potato-like object right through its middle.

The Prime Minister studied the motionless figure next to for a moment before turning to Elena and saying, "I thought he said you used it for breathing."

The Minister’s wife soon sensed Elena’s alarm and came to help her raise Robert up. There was a bowl of water on the table that had been used for the ceremonial purpose of washing some of the food at the beginning of the dinner. Elena grabbed that and the ceremonial towel and began washing Robert’s face.

"Oh, dear me," said the Prime Minister’s wife. "Is this what you do with your fallen spouses on Earth?"

Robert was drooling purple juice and his eyes were fixed listlessly on the ceiling.

"What do you mean by fallen?" Elena asked as she continued to rub.

"I only meant that I heard some species on your planet can be most violent and turn on their own kind."

"You’re thinking of sharks and baboons," said Elena. "Robert and I are diplomats, which is supposed to mean we’re more civilized. Would you mind helping me move this chair back some?"

The Prime Minister himself was becoming concerned and had motioned for attendants to be called. Bemused eyes had started to drift in the direction of the man from Earth.

"Of course I’ll help you," said the Prime Minister’s wife. "But if I might interrupt you for just a moment . . ."

Elena looked up at the alien woman standing over her and attempted to decipher the concern on her face. But it was too upsetting a circumstance to think clearly. "Yes," she said finally, still holding her husband’s head in her hands. "You were saying?"

"I only thought we might take him to another room," the other woman said. "I mean, you don’t propose to eat him here?"

The next day, the Prime Minister sent 212 to the temporary residence to pick up Ambassador Smith. The Adjutant arrived early and was asked to wait outside. He could hear a strange whirring noise and what sounded like alien cursing to him, but after the welcoming dinner, nothing about Earth people particularly worried him.

At the space port, one of the crew members thought she recognized the passenger wearing the open mesh jersey with the foreign lettering. Robert said hello when she approached.

"Leaving so soon?"

"I’ll be back in a few months," he said. I’ve got to pick up some equipment back home. And your Prime Minister wants me to show his son around the university where I went to school."

The young passenger next to Robert put two of his tentacled arms through the football jersey he was wearing. "I’m going to be a tight end for the Cornhuskers," he said.

"Maybe so," she said. "But how comfortable can you be in a shirt with only two armholes?"

"I like it this way. Mr. Horse Breath gave it to me," said the prime Minister’s son.

"Atta boy," said Robert. "You’ll be in the Orange bowl in no time with an attitude like that."

When Elena finally emerged, the Adjutant had a long list of things that had to be done that day.

"We need to have you measured for new clothes," he said. "The anthropology dean wants to have lunch with you. The senators from the seed belt would like you to address a meeting this afternoon. And the Prime Minister would like you to organize some entertainment on the front lawn."

"Got your last one," she said, bringing up a football that Robert had left behind for her. "My dad would be so proud of me."

"Yes," said the Adjutant, "being a last minute replacement at the diplomatic level is very difficult. It is indeed impressive that your president chose you to take your husband’s place while he is recuperating from his illness. You are a supremely talented and resilient human being, Ambassador 16."

"No, I didn’t mean that," she said. "I meant my father would be impressed if he knew I had blown up this football with my hair dryer."

The end

copyright c)2000 Richard Braco