(c) 1992 George Dubinky


INTERGALACTIC LANGUAGE MERCENARY


A Novel by

George Dubinky


CHAPTER 1


	Intergalactic language mercenary. I had thought about	becoming one for years; perhaps it was time. Earth's recession was hitting home. My home. Pounding at the door like internal security. That was my excuse. Not a bad one either, it being true. My contract spouse believed it. Why not? Excuse my language, but futhark! Even Erotical pills stretched the budget. That was the last straw, she said. Natural? Like an animal?
	I didn't point out the obvious. She was young, brought up in a world where babies came from test tubes and the only animals left were domesticated, genetically altered food factories fed their nutrients through a tube. That man was an animal seemed as impossible as a clear day.
	I couldn't blame her. There weren't many reminders that humans were animals. Maybe we weren't anymore. We had came, we had saw, we had conquered.
	But poverty wasn't my true problem. I was bored. Futharking bored. While I never seemed to catch up with the ever increasing life-extending technologies -- every time I found a new way to abuse my body, they found a cure -- it felt my life was passing me by.
	Whiz, whiz, whiz.
	Not that I was old; a robust ninety-nine in Earth years. Half the way? Oh, an organ had failed here and there, but my harvestclones were healthy. I was running out
of lungs, however. Those things go fast.
	My nanomachines worked around the clock, chomping away
at the sticky plaque the deathsticks and cow flesh caused. I contained the new model; self replicating. probably would live long after I died.
	If I ever did. Who can tell nowadays? It used to be a sure thing, I'm told.
	I swear I can feel those impossibly small machines roaming my circulatory system, munching away, fulfilling their programs. Happy little critters. Plenty of food; I do my best.
	Oh, to have a program, a purpose!
	I was bored, without a purpose. Perhaps that is better than bored with a purpose.  I wouldn't know, though.
	To tell the truth, credits were low. My salary had not kept pace with inflation, and my various vices were an eternal drain that grew larger with each sin tax. Sin tax? One man's sin is another's sacrament.
	I should vote sometime.
	At the very least, teaching Earther, Earth's global language, would increase my income. Plenty of demand, if you were willing to leave the solar system. Besides the high wages, my friends had beamed me that you had lots of free time. Working hours were half the average Earth four. Twice the pay with half the work. Sounded good.
	My peer group had made the jump. Not to a well-developed planet like Zippon, the closest thing to civilization in the Brim system. Zippon required a contract, stability and a work history. Even job skills. Thus the peer group was on Peitou.
	On Peitou, everything was illegal, but nothing was against the law. Its proximity to Mongkut, on which everything is legal and nothing is against the law, couldn't hurt.
	Or my friends said. God, or reasonable facsimile rest their merry souls.

CHAPTER 2

	Quitting my job at the insurance company would be easy, if I could only do it. In charge of bodily injury settlement expert programs that argued with plaintiff bodily injury expert programs, the company kept me around to brag about a human in the system.
	I couldn't decide if I wanted to make the jump; a cockroach trapped in the light, knowing that boot was coming down. High pay, adventure, and travel versus boredom, health insurance, and retirement benefits. A harder choice than it sounds. At the rate modern science was increasing life expectancy and employers minimum retirement age, I'd never see retirement benefits anyway.
	I was resting in my ergonomically designed workpod, mind flip-flopping like that last dolphin in an illegal drift net, when my cyberwatch beeped, holopic light flashing. Hmmm. Perhaps the current contract spouse wanted to apologize for my behavior last night, as she often did. Aiming at an empty space between two Kray supercomputers, I activated the hologram.
	A ragged rock and roll band filled the room, their unorganized yelling drowning out what music there was. The band pranced about, sweating profusely, obviously in a very hot, humid climate. Their clothes were alien, except for my friend Neon, in khaki shorts and a ragged T-shirt with a cartoon character on it that I didn't recognize, Fido Dildo" or something. Also, Manchild was naked. Like always.
 	I didn't recognize the guitar player, but he appeared an Earthling, with his long, blonde hair.
	Gramps, a friend since cognition reared its ugly head, raised his arms like a perspiring Jesus. The band quieted, except the guitar player. Not only was he on another world, but in his own. His concentration was focused on his fingers, and they weren't going to stop. Gramps gave up, and twiddled on the sixteen track recorder and synthesizer on his wrist. A screaming crowd filled the air. Gramps walked to a microphone.
	"Ladies and Gentlemen ... The Peer Group from Peito." Gramps fiddled again with his synthesizer and the synthetic crowd went wild.
	Intox -- alcohol -- smiled in the band's sweat, seemingly staining the white floor as it fell, but, of course, it never hit the ground. Holopic, after all. I swore I could smell the intox on their breath; the alien brew called "deerpiss."

	At least I could say I knew that smell, that rancid taste. In a fit of loneliness one evening after a typical relationship-ending battle with a contract spouse, I had blown a week's wages on a tube in a desperate attempt of communion with my faraway friends. Intergalactic imports were expensive, but I had good credit.
	That night I had primed myself with intox -- beer, or in current lingo, barley pop -- for bravery, since deerpiss was only available in a section of the megatropolis that lacked internal security. The aliens did not worry me; the humans did.  The area was known as "Spivland" because of the large concentration of poor, chronically unemployed, drug abusing, tattooed, uneducated, hairy, violence-prone locals. Spivs, as the demographic group had been labeled long ago. Back when nationstates existed, instead of economicblocs, After much searching I found a store for Peitou expatriates. Immigrants, the Peitouians were forced to settle in poorer-neighborhoods. Even so, they often pooled family resources and bought an intox or grocery store.
	Strange animal carcasses hung in the window, seemingly forgotten, covered with flies. I cupped my hand to the window to see inside. Strange, short creatures were buzzing about, all smoking deathsticks. Peitouians. The isles were crammed with rows and rows of irregularly stacked packages. Everybody seemed to have a purpose, but nobody seemed to be doing anything. Lighting a fresh deathstick I stepped inside.
	As I was searching among the alien products for deerpiss -- I knew from my friends holomessages it came in a tube with an alien ungulate on its label -- the locals pointed at me, spouting syllabic nonsense and hooting while they flung mucus far and wide. I assumed they were laughing at my height, as Peitouians averaged one meter; half my two. Smiling, the intergalactic ambassador, I walked into a low doorway (high for the locals) and knocked myself out.
	I was awakened by what I thought was the taste of vomit on my lips. I opened my eyes. The storekeeper was squatting over me -- or perhaps standing, pouring liquid into my mouth. I recognized the tube.
	"Good for heart" he said in broken Earther.
	The evolutionary differences frightened me. I stood, grabbed the tube, ran my EarthEx card through the scanner, and left to drink the rest at home. Which I did.
	So I knew both deerpiss's scent and repercussions.

	As did that contract spouse, never seen again.

	The band pranced about, eyes revealing other substances, likely not known to Earth science. Always the biochemists, those boys.
	Gramps, de-facto leader of the peer group, strummed his bass guitar and smiled at me. The rest of the band joined in. I recognized the garbled tune. I had written it long ago, in a band with Gramps, before I had made the choice to be responsible. When I was young and free. A long time ago .

	Gramps yelled the lyrics over the music.

	"Perception is as important as reality. Ask any schizophrenic you see."
	Gramps smiled, then the band disappeared.

	The deal was done. I had my purpose.  Accessing my keyboard, I typed seven characters, including the space. Capitals seemed appropriate.

	“I QUIT."

	I would become a mercenary. An intergalactic language mercenary.

CHAPTER 3

	My step was light as I walked, emancipated, into the afternoon haze. A symbolically clear day; I could almost see the sun. My friends told me Peitou's pollution was worse than I could imagine. They were right. I couldn’t imagine worse.
	I was halfway to the maglev subway entrance when I realized, in my new found freedom, that I had forgotten to cream up. I reached for solblock, then stopped. My new life would be one of risk. I could survive some ultraviolet. Soon I would be rid of this festering orb. If I mangled up the credits. It was in God's hands. If He was actually out there. And had forelimbs. Spivs filled the maglev. They behaved on the subway because of internal security's presence. One spiv wore a Ziebrig shirt; probably inherited. I remembered SkyBattles but was double his age. Spivs could barely afford lifepills, let alone harvestclones. A spiv would be lucky to reach my age. And I was young, by most standards.
	Bhang, a natural plant-drub, circulated. It was illegal, like all pleasure drugs except deathsticks and intox, but its use was so widespread it was usually ignored by internal security. The troopers felt it pacified a user.
	I accepted a microbonq hit from a friendly spiv. What the futhark? No more hair or piss exams for me.
	The chemical's successful crossing of my brain barrier set me thinking. Why were all pleasure drugs except deathsticks and intox illegal? A dim neuron flailed. Something to do with vestigial laws from nationstate times.
	The journey under the megatropolis was short, dilated by my artificially induced happiness: a primer  as such brain states were called. I bought a swig of intox at the barcar. You know: when the going gets prime, the prime get going.
	I was early; no contract spouse to deal with. Good thing: the new one's assets (despite their propensity) did not negate her liabilities. It sounds sexist, and it is. The retina scanner read my vein pattern, always a comfort.  Once again, I had not had a stroke. I swore I could feel the heat of the red laser beam, but knew it was just my prime monkeying with my perceptions.
	"Perception is as important as reality...."

	Maybe.
	The door clicked open. I stepped inside my dink -- slang for a microcondo. Futhark! The spouse had left it on bedroom. What a heathen. I stood in the secure zone and pushed for living room. The bed disappeared, replaced by couch and holoset. I checked my cyberwatch. The significant other would be working fastfood for another hour. I switched on the holonews.
	Life is full of coincidences. Maybe. Perhaps it is full of infinite inputs and you only notice the ones that
are important to your current state.
	It was a special on interplanetary economics, focusing on the Brim. The Brim system was a collection of planets undergoing an economic boom. Primarily export to Earth, but they were developing commerce between themselves.
	Who could have guessed? They were discovered less than a century ago. The existence of sentient beings, besides Earthlings -- sentient was being generous, in my opinion -- was the greatest news story since the fall of nationstates. Sentient beings! The world stood in awe. The call went out to scientists to study these unknown races. Anthropologists, sociologists, psychologists. So much to learn!
	Good and fine, but not very profitable.
	The Brim inhabitants were primitive, having just discovered the wheel and metal tools. Later, digs showed that the planets had been stuck in a cultural circle; technology had advanced to an industrial level several times, only to be dragged down by the demands of traditional culture which seemed to take up most of the peoples' time. Or: they had nifty religions but no holosets.
	Knowledge flooded in; comparative everything, Comparative biology, comparative sociology, comparative anthropology, comparative bowel movement habits, comparative...
	Science was great, but business people saw something just as abstract: profits. Completely new markets. The government attempted to organize the onslaught of technology, as leaders realized the Brim planets could be
exploited in stages -- nurturing progress, bringing them through the industrial age, then the information age, etc.
	Selling the necessary products along the way. Many felt the export markets could pull Earth out its eternal recession, if managed correctly.
	Laws were passed to maximize the exploitation, but business people couldn't resist breaking them. Making a profit is after all, mankind's best skill. Or second best, after killing. Obeying laws is way down the list.
	High technology leaked to the Brim planets at a rapid pace, and continues to do so. It is still a time of transition, where a man who tilled his floop (a rice-like fungus) with his Qewn (a beast-of-burden, a cold-blooded oxen with eight legs -- nine if you counted the prehensile tail) went home to watch ancient Earthling 2Ds on television. Or holovision, if crops had been good.
          Few anticipated the ability of natives to duplicate technology and the products such knowledge brought. They were reaching the stage where they weren't copying anymore -- they were bettering. And exporting. Where? Guess.
	But for all the Brim natives' skill to understand technology and schematics, there was one aspect of Earth society they couldn't grasp. An important one, if you planned to make business contacts with the planet with all the money.
	Earth. Full of Earthlings that spoke Earther.
	Brim languages didn't even have an alphabet; instead composed of alternating hoots, singing, and guttural phlegm-clearing sounds. Earthlings found the alien tongues almost as difficult to master as Brimmers found Earther. Not that many Earthlings cared.
	No, the Brimmers had to learn Earther. Some Earthlings learned some Brim system languages and a few adopted Brim religions. The dogma from Peitou was popular, probably because it avoided the pretense of a Divine Being who held you accountable for faults He had installed.
	I could rapport with the concept, and would have converted if I gave doodly-squat for anything beyond my next barley pop.
	Earther was beyond the Brimmers. A conglomerate of countless ancient Earth tongues that had merged during the great global integration, it evolved faster than a virus on the planet Mongkut. Some worlds, like Zippon, progressed faster than others. But Peitou? Earther numbers still stumped them. Earthlings were in high demand. What Peitouians called "native speakers" -- someone raised on Earth. Including
irresponsible, lazy, pharm and intox abusing slugs like my friends. Especially them, since few Earthling would live on Peitou because of the conditions there.
	As coincidences would go, it was ranked. The holonews ended with a segment on Peitou; how its stock market was doubling monthly. I took it as a sign from God; or perhaps The Flow, as Earthlings called the Peitouian belief of a cosmic force.
	But credits were slim. I had equity in my dink, but not enough for a jump. Hyperspace tickets were expensive. I had quit employment; I couldn't even make the next mortgage payment.

CHAPTER 4


	I looked for pawnable items. An  used holoset with a holophone feature. A set of worn gravifurniture; might be worth something. The couch was hovering close to the ground, though. That was it. My cyberwatch. Not much. I took the watch off and laid it on the table. My contract spouse would need something to pawn for the mortgage payment.
	No. She could sell the dink, if need be. There was a million in equity. I owed her that. She had, like all my spouses, put up with a lot; more than I.
	I was done with spouses. If I could overcome the biological urge to stay on my planet, I could resist the need for permanent female companionship.
	Besides, I didn’t have the time to sell the dink. I was afraid I would back out of my decision, like the clay ape I was.
	Perhaps I could finance the jump by maxing plastic. I requested an advance. Predictable. The contract spouse had me to limits. I wouldn't miss financing her habits. Intox, bhang, pharms, loids. Or mine, come to think about it, but there was little choice there.
	No job, no credits. Like a newborn. Or a spiv.
	Nature called. The dink could be worse. At least the bathroom was self-contained. Heating the seat, I sat down to my favorite book. Printed on paper, I had found it in an antique store that specialized in prebloc era relics.
	Written by a forgotten author, as were they all, it captured my attention despite my ignorance. I was unclear
about the nationstate thing it revolved around, but the artificial conflict between two friends -- one president of a nationstate island, one leader of a banned religion -- was something I enjoyed.
	I was beginning to appreciate the era's context and the humor that went with it. As I let gravity have its way I heard a clink as byproducts scraped against the metal of the bowl.  I thought about taking the book despite the extra mass. What did it matter if I couldn't afford the jump anyway? Ever since my intestinal transplant -- thank God one of my harvestclones had a complete lower intestine -- I had been careful to supplement my diet with bran. I did not want to go through that procedure again. The surgery was painless, but the recovery period was harsh, in a scatological sense.
	I had evolved a strange habit. It involved buoyancy.
	Performing my observational ritual (to see if I was eating enough bran. I had heard a rumor -- I never checked if it was true -- that floatation meant enough bran was consumed) I was puzzled by a metallic glint. I remembered the clink. Bizarre. I checked my sputtering neurons. Nope. Hadn't happened before, as far as I could remember.
	As far as I could remember? Hardy-har-har.
	I considered my options. Flush was obvious. But primate curiosity won. Postponing the flush (and yes, floatation had been achieved) I decided to perform a task that I prefer not to elaborate on. A tool was used, a hanger from the closet.
	Long live the tool-yielding apes! Perhaps destined to conquer the universe, like their planet? At this point it seemed likely.
	Once the object of my desire was in the sink, I ran boiling water until particulates dissolved. A coppery disc remained. I turned the water off. Still unconfident; germs had responded to mankind's technological progress well -- I went to my intox cabinet and grabbed the remaining bottle. Mex brew, ninety proof. I closed the drain and filled the sink. Expensive intox, but replaceable.
	There was a swig left, so I took it. I picked up the disc, and examined it. Vestigial grandmother cells fired. A word sputtered to the surface. "Coin.”
	An ancient monetary unit. How? Why?
	What was it worth?
	A profile of a bearded man filled one side, two stocks of some plant the other. Both sides contained writing, something about the nationstate that preceded NorthAmerica Bloc. I understood most of it, but some was in an unknown tongue -- likely an ancient Earther language. There was a date on the front: 1960,
	Where could I have consumed this "coin?" I ate out often. Neither me or my contact spouse were much for micros. The fridge was eternally bare. I had consumed its only contents, besides barley pop, last night; a yokroll Gramps had left on his last visit,. Gramps came back to Earth regularly. He explained he had discovered the secret of happiness: always be going home. When on Peitou, he was always leaving for Earth, where his remaining terrestrial friend was happy to hear of his adventures; when on Earth, he was always leaving for Peitou, where he could make money and his expatriate friends were eager for news of the home planet.
	He was trying to get everybody to make the jump. I was the last; the only one who ever had a regular job. A tough sell. During his last visit, he gave me the yokroll -- native Peitouian food -- telling me to fast before eating it.
	I had, but not from his advice. I had no food and was primed. The yokroll stunk like the carcasses in the Peitouian shop where I had bought the deerpiss, but since I had fasted inadvertently for a day, I ate it.
	Perhaps it was Divine Providence. Or "The Flow." I accessed the datachannel. The coin was a "penny," worth one percent of a NorthAmerican "dollar." An interesting artifact, no doubt. Worth something.
	I indexed a 1960 penny. Futhark! Worth a hundred million credits! God worked in mysterious ways! The holoscreen flashed a second line. "If in mint condition and has no 'd.'"
	I looked at the coin; mint condition all right, freshly scrubbed by a billion cilia and various digestive juices. But there were two 'd's'. One on the front and one on the back. Still, it must have some value being so ancient.
	I entered an advert. My screen lit up. The first dealer appeared and I held my "penny" between my thumb and forefinger, turning it slowly.
	"Appears mint condition," the dealer said. Is there a ‘d’?"

	"Yes," I said. "Two of them."
	He faced lit up. "Two? Are you sure?" I could see him indexing on his laptop. "Two? You sure?"
	"Yes. One on the front, one on the back."
	"Where did you get this coin?"
	"I'd rather not elaborate," I said.
	"I'm coming over. If it is authentic, it may be the most important nationstate coin ever found."
	"How much?" I asked.
	"Five hundred million?    Who knows?"
        I gave him my address.  Five hundred million! I checked the coin again. Yes, two 'd's'
	Ten minutes later the doorbell rang. I yelled "open" and the dealer stepped inside. He set a large briefcase on the table. Opening it, he removed several instruments, and placed a magnifier in his right eye, squinting to keep it in place.
	"Let's see that alleged double-d 1960" he said. I handed it to him.
	"There's no 'd' on this penny," he said, turning it front of his magnifier.
	"Yes there is."
	“Where?”
	I took the coin back. "Over the man's head on the front: 'In God we trust.' And above the plants on the back: 'United . . . ' "
	He laughed. "You're right. Unfortunately not what I meant. Still, there is no 'd' where the 'd' I meant is supposed to be,"
	"So no five hundred million credits?" I asked.
	"Afraid not." He motioned and I handed back the coin. He placed it on a scale, muttering to himself. "0.9999 of an ounce." He ran a laser tape measure around the diameter. ".075 inches." He aimed a beam of light at the penny. "95% copper, 5% zinc and tin." 24
	He looked up, smiling. "1960 no 'd'. I'11 give you ninety million."
	I should have bartered, but ninety million credits? I agreed and the dealer left with the coin. Minutes later my account was credited. I'm not stupid; I revoked my contact spouse's EarthEx card. She would have bought the latest model hovercar. Probably some new cold fusion PacRim model.
	More likely injects. Or some new loid.
	I thought about leaving a note but dismissed the idea. I holoed the bank and signed the dink over to her. I didn't need it. I even paid off my EarthEx card. No job and no debt!
	Happy days.
	I called for a hovertaxi. Within an hour I was at the airport. I bought a ticket for the jump and had enough left to beam the peer group I was leaving the planet of my birth.
	Not just the planet of my birth but where my species had evolved, where it was designed to exist. From the first amino acids floating in God's Chicken Soup, the entire evolution of lifeforms had developed in response to Earth's environment. Thoughts raced. Was it right to desert the planet which had so carefully nursed the lineage along through billions of years?
	Yes. If you had enough money.

	I was out of here.

CHAPTER 5

	Zippon was the first stop; the wormhole exited close by. Or entered, depending on your direction. From there it was a shuttle to Peitou. I had friends on Zippon, my respectable ones, but I had no desire to visit now. I couldn't afford it anyway. It was a very expensive planet. Perhaps later; on vacation or a journey back to Earth.
If I returned.
	We weren't allowed to consume before the jump because of some safety rule. When we landed I went directly to the bar. I had a two hour layover -- in Zipponian; four and a half Earthling, according to my cyberwatch. The shuttle itself would only take an Earth hour; Peitou was currently close to Zippon. All Brim planets existed in contiguous orbits, naturally. There was a set distance from a sun that allowed life. The system was remarkable in that it
possessed a dozen planets that fit the picky criteria life demanded. After all, Earth's system only allowed one. Astronomers said there had been many collisions between celestial bodies eons ago, but things were stable now. In a million years Peitou's slightly wobbly orbit would cause a collision with Jungo, but nobody was worried. At the present time, that is.
	I didn't want to be sober when I reached Peitou. I almost brought pharms to confirm my prime but I was nervous about Zipponian customs. Zippon was tightly controlled and I did not want to spend time learning the intricacies of their legal system first hand.
	The bar was unmanned; rows of vending machines lined the walls. Running my EarthEx through the scanner, I ordered a local beer. Despite mankind's faults, it must be congratulated for its development of credit cards which allowed peons like me to live beyond their means. At least temporarily, until the bill arrived.
	Opening the beer, I gagged at the stench. But knowing the alcohol content, I forced it down. Once olfactory senses were eliminated, it was smooth.
	I looked about. The bar was filled with a circus of races. Bipedalism was the rule. I recognized several species. There was a group of Peitouians in the corner, chain smoking deathsticks, Earth's top export to Zippon -on Peitou, the government still had a monopoly, but I suspected that would change soon. The Peitouians continually filled shot glasses with a thick liquid, holding them up as they repeated some phlegm-laced chant. Then they emptied their glasses.
	Naturally, there were many Zipponians, all dressed in Earth-like business suits, complete with vests. Their sight was almost familiar since they had the greatest amount of contact with Earth. They were taller than Peitouians, but shared an evolutionary background. At least that was my impression. Zipponians discounted any connection with Peitouians; they claimed the proximity of planets had caused parallel evolution. It was a weak, illogical, and racist argument but one they firmly believed.
	Before Earthlings had arrived, the Brim system had been in a state of constant warfare, which the Zipponians dominated. So to them, historical precedence supported their beliefs.
	Who am I to argue? I didn't even possess the ability to pick a stable female partner.
	The cognizant species from Mongkut seemed the domestic help,	 cleaning cluttered tables swiftly with their four upper tentacles.
	A Zipponian sat next to me at the bar. I smiled at him. He sucked in his flat nose, returning my greeting. I went back to my beer. He stood, bought the same beer, and returned. He flipped the pop top with one of his fingers -I guess you call them that -- and took a drink. Seeing I was watching, he emptied the can, and wiped his flat face, nose withdrawn, with the back of his hand.
	"Beer good, shit no?" he asked.

	I made a mistake. I smiled at his Earther, then	corrected him.

	"No shit," I said.

	"What?" he replied, nudging next to me.
	"'No shit,'  not 'shit no.' You said it backwards."
	He produced  a guttural apology, bowing forward. "Thank you, thank you.    You most best teacher. No shit."
	I smiled again, and apparently had a friend for the rest of my short stay, or my life, whichever came first.
	"You teacher Zippon?" he asked.
	"NO. Peitou."


	He gagged. "Peitou? No shit? Why?"
	"Why not?"
	"Ha, ha, ha, ha," he chuckled, in a good imitation of an Earthling laugh. "Funny joke. No shit. But why?"
	"Because. "
	"Ha, ha, ha, ha. Funny monkey. You reason for teach ugly planet?"
	"Not monkey," I said. "Ape." I wiggled my butt. "No tail."
	"Oh," he said. "Thank you." He pulled a small notebook from his vest pocket and scribbled furiously. "Funny ape. You reason for teach ugly planet?"
	I again corrected him. "Do you have a reason for teaching on an ugly planet."
	He shook with excitement. "Oh, oh, oh. Yes. I stupid. You say again?" He took a small recorder out and placed it on the bar. "OK? OK? OK?"
	"Do you have a reason for teaching on an ugly planet."        He repeated the sentence.
	"OK?" he asked.
	"OK," I said. "Close enough." I looked for an escape. The other stools were suddenly filled with Zipponians, listening intently. All placed recorders on the bar.
	It struck me. I had one skill up here, an intangible one I took for granted, but an expensive commodity nonetheless. I was giving it away for free.
	I emptied my beer, belching. My new fans chuckled; I had no way of knowing that I had just said I wanted sex in Zipponian.
	"I have sister. Trade for Earther?" one said, thinking I spoke his tongue.
	He must have mistook my look of confusion for one of anger. Human faces are difficult to read, I am told. He held his globular head in his hands and turned bright purple before falling to the floor.
	Nobody cared. His stool was quickly filled; in fact, it was now a standing room only crowd.
	Might as well make a profit. "I'm thirsty," I said. "What's the best barley pop you got?" Barley pop wasn't technically correct, I knew, since the local beer was made from a domesticated slime, but assumed the Zipponians would understand.
	Thirty fish-like mouths gaped. My friend next to me was the first to recover and purled a dictionary from his pocket, hurriedly pressing buttons. The others saw him, and	the bar was filled with beeps. Suddenly there was a stampede to the vending machines as the Earther slang was translated, then my mob returned with every beer produced in the universe. Many cost a pretty credit, too. I pondered my choices, then chose the most expensive, an Earthling beer, Wasatch Ale.
	Everybody congratulated the Zipponian who had bought it, shaking his hand, bowing. He stood, sucking his nose in and out. It was quite a celebration. I drank the beer, then all eyes turned back to me. I grabbed a Peitouian beer. Might as well get used to it.
	Everybody congratulated the buyer.
	Time passed quickly as my prime developed, my fans hanging on my every movement. Soon it was time to go. I stood, looking at my cyberwatch. Everybody crowded to look at it.
	"Good Cyber" one said.
	"What?" I asked.
	"Nice cybe," he repeated, pointing at my watch.
	"Thank you," I said. Earther tended to shorten words, and the Brim apparently was developing its own slang. I looked at my "cybe" again, drawing out my movements.
	The Zipponians this time understood my non-verbal cues, and a hundred business cards were shoved in my face.
	The gravity was much stronger than when I last stood. I dragged myself towards my gate. If everything else failed, which it usually did, I had found out one important fact about this corner of the universe.
	That the natives were friendly, and in fact loved Earthlings? That I could breathe the air on this foreign planet? That it was possible to leave Earth, that I wasn't bound to the planet of my birth?
	Nope.
	More important: I could drink for free.

CHAPTER 6

	I pushed groceries several times on the flight. Just as well; good to rid my system of the combination of fermented barley, fungus, and slime. Nobody cared about my three dimensional Technicolor yawns except on the first, which didn't quite make it into the suction bag. The flight attendants were quick and efficient, however, with their portavacs.
	"Neep flom ahhuggh toot. Yip beep Peitou. Neeeehow pitongue...," the intercom blared. I assumed it meant we were close.
	The intercom crackled again. The pilot must have known an Earthling was onboard.
	"Hello. How are you. Close Peitou. Out window see."
	The flight attendants stared at me. Smiling, I turned my head to look for the planet. An attendant ran to the                                 	cockpit; I assumed to tell the captain he had successfully communicated in Earther.
	I could see a gaseous planet, brown clouds swirling in great circles from the equator. Where was Peitou? It was nine-tenths water. I put on Velcro boots, and walked to the other side of the shuttle to look. Nothing but space. Twinkle, twinkle. An attendant waddled to me and motioned to the other window, the one I had first looked out.
	The entry into the atmosphere was bumpy, but my remaining cookies held. Gravity felt good. For several minutes we passed through cloud cover, then the planet revealed itself. The water was the same color as the air. Ahead, I saw what seemed an island. Later I found out it was the major continent.
	My prime wasn't what I had planned, having divested myself of much of it before it could be absorbed into my intestinal walls, but I managed a healthy buzz.
	Customs were slow; the inspector wanted to practice his limited Earther. I saw that I needed to get used to impromptu lessons. I got impatient, which the inspector sensed. He waved me through.
	He attempted to say "Sorry, sorry." It sounded more like "Sorroghhhh, sorroghhhh."
	I dodged the mucus, collected my bags, and vowed never again to travel with checked luggage.
	I found the door. Stepping into dim sunlight I checked my cyberwatch -- cybe, reset for Peitouian time. High noon. I saw endless swarms of Peitouians, all with a purpose, I guess, but looking more like ants scrambling about an anthill.
	An unfair analogy. Ants had a purpose; organization to their movements. Building their home, searching for food, raising their offspring, protecting the home turf....
	Perhaps more accurate: the hive of Peitouians looked like ants with their antennas cut off, knowing they were supposed to do something and go somewhere, but lacking the ability to know what and where.
	They filled every inch of pavement, pushing and shoving to get nowhere. Ants at least followed a coherent path. I watched. There was a pattern, although the smog was so thick I couldn't see the details. The pattern wasn't familiar to an Earthling's linear thought process. I was prejudiced. Not my fault, though. I came from a planet far, far away.
     In the distance I could make out a group of gigantic brightly dressed creatures. They were coming closer and the hive of locals parted for them in an apparently prearranged plan. I couldn't make out what the huge beings were, but they were aiming for me. And why not? I made a good target, twice as tall as any lifeform around.
	I squinted, but smog eliminated my sight. Closer and closer they came. Nervousness set in; everything was so alien. Billions of buzzing Peitouians was bad enough. But what had I done to be targeted by a group of colossal mutants? They came closer; definitely aiming for me. I saw the locals parted not from a prearranged plan but from intimidation.
	Suddenly the creatures were upon me. I still could not make them out, between my remaining prime and the clouds that swirled everywhere. One, the shortest of the group but still towering over the Peitouians, walked to me. I could only see his bright, apparently tie-died T-shirt.
	An object rested in his hand. Glasses.
	"Put these on," he said in Earther.
	I did. The glasses had polarized lenses that cut through the smog.
	I recognized the monster.
	"Smogglasses," Gramps said. "Essential outdoors."
	He held out his other hand. There were several pills	 in it.
	"Eat these," he said.
	I did.

	Two weeks later...

 CHAPTER 7

	Brainsoup, those first two weeks. Peitouian weeks, mind you. Tolerance for inter was high but my system was ill-equipped for the cornucopia of unknown and presumed illicit substances that found their way into my bloodstream and across my brain barrier.
	And a thin barrier it is.
	It was hard to say if it was the primes or the planet that did not allow my brain to focus. Peitou was a strange planet, perhaps the strangest.
	I had only one planet to compare it with, though, unless spaceport bars counted. Two, if so.
	When I awoke I was dressed and, amazingly enough, at work. Teaching Earther, I assumed. A wave of nauseating detoxification washed over me; there I was, teaching an overflow class of Peitouians. I stared out at the gaping fish mouths. They stared back. I had a dim recollection of beginning a sentence.
	I looked down at the desk in hopes of a clue and caught a glimpse of myself. Hair. I raised my hand to my face. A beard. Hmmm. I examined my clothes. I was dressed in a tie-died T-shirt, ragged jeans, and black slippers.
	Neurons sputtered, free at last, and fragmented memories filled my head.

	"Seer Of All...?" A student asked.

	"What?"  I replied.

	"Seer Of All...?"

	"Why do you call me that?"

	"It is your name."
	"Oh," I said. I hesitated to imagine what I had taught these Peitouians. I needed a deathstick. Inhaling carcinogenic smoke was a hobby of mine. Neural nets were reestablishing themselves, making conversation difficult. "How long have I been teaching your class?"
	My students thought it a test of Earther counting skills. A female in front raised her hand. She looked familiar; stranger since I didn't remember developing the ability to tell the natives apart. You know the saying: All Brimmers look alike.
	I pointed at her. She stood. Her accent was thick.  "Uggg-ten phlem-d-d-days."
	She was wearing a tight top, revealing human-like breasts. A memory burrowed to the surface informing me that Peitouians possessed remarkably human-like reproductive organs. Or was I prejudiced? Perhaps humans possessed remarkably Peitouian-like reproductive organs.
	In any case, it was knowledge I didn't know I had. I stared at her. She smiled and sucked her nose in and out. I recalled a neural route that had established itself despite the chemical battleground it had forged. She was attending class for free.
	Escape was a necessity. I stroked my beard, a habit I discovered I had. I recalled I was being paid an obscene amount to teach this class; I also remembered that the peer group had planned a priming tonight. I would need a monetary influx.
	"Class dismissed," I said.
	Noses were sucked in and out but my command did not evoke much negative response, like it had been heard before.

CHAPTER 8

	Two weeks with almost no recall and I needed a vacation. I put on my Walkman, a primitive portable stereo that the intergalactic conglomerate Sent was remanufacturing for the Brimmers. Brimmers was used to describe all occupants of this solar system. Walkmans had not been sold on Earth since PreBloc times, long supplanted by higher technology. The devices used a primitive form of recording, magnetic impulses on tape. Lacking comparisons, I could see why the product had been so popular.
	With the gradual introduction of Earthling products and services, a day on Peitou was like discovering Earth technology and culture from long ago. Stores were full of discarded technology like "VCRs," "food processors," and "rotary phones." The current hot fad was for "salad shooters," surely the most useless device ever created.
	I saw the purpose behind the United Planet regulations of technological introduction; the Peitouians would buy each stage in droves. Earthling companies undercut themselves by skipping technological eras, especially in consumer products; if the markets were nurtured, new products could be brought our yearly. But the intergalactic conglomerates did, in hopes of gaining larger market share than competitors. For greater profits.
	Name of the game, I suppose. I recalled that much from my MBA. In fact, holosets were not scheduled to be introduced for a decade -- Peitouian years -- but they were so common programs were already broadcast in hole.
	So be it. It was inevitable; greed was a prized Earthling emotion, envied by all cognizant species.
	I particularly liked ancient Earth music. I put my favorite tape in; an extinct band fittingly named "The Dead." As I left the school, I stopped at the pay window to get my EarthEx card recharged, then walked into this brave new world.
	The smog stung my eyes. I was almost hit by a hoverscooter flying close to the building to avoid the skyjam. I put my smogglasses on. The lenses cut through the glare. The streets were crammed with vehicles; scooters, buses, and automobiles on the ground, and hoverscooters and hovercars above. Crudely constructed buildings rose from the garbage piled on the streets. The noise was deafening, so I turned up the Dead.
	The ground begin to sway. I closed my eyes to no avail. My brain decided it was not a personal thing; a revolt for its exposure to chemical compounds it had not been given the opportunity to evolve to handle, but rather a manifestation of the planet's mobile tectonic plates. A building across the street collapsed, catching several hoverscooters on its descent. One contained a family of five; Dad was driving, Mom behind with an infant strapped to her back, and a teenager, arms wrapped around her waist. A child rode on the handle bars.
	Or did.
	I hurried to a subwalk that ran under the street. They were common; it was too dangerous to cross the congested streets aboveground. Subwalks were filled with hawkers selling God knows what: smuggled clothing from Earth or Zippon, Peitouian food, you name it. But this one was strangely empty. I took my earphones off. Above, the quake rumbled on. Ahead, I heard a lone guitar. At first I thought it my tape, but realized the guitar was playing the same song.
	It was an Earthling, busking for a living. He seemed familiar but I couldn't place him. His hat, a baseball cap, sat upside down on the floor. It was filled with the dull gleam of Peitouian coins. A sign behind him announced his availability for impromptu Earther lessons, and gave his rates. A local came running by in a panic; from the quake, I assumed, but stopped when he saw the busker. He examined the rates, written in both Earther and Peitouian, then sucked his nose in.
	The guitar player stopped. "Hello," he said.
	The Peitouian stuttered. "H-h-hello."      "How are you?" Shaman asked politely.
	The Peitouian concentrated, then spoke. "I am fine, thank you. And you?"
	"I am fine."
	The Peitouian threw some coins into the hat and scurried off. The busker didn't bother to count his take and resumed his song, continuing exactly where my tape was. I could still hear it since the earphones were dangling around my neck. When the song ended the busker spoke.
	"Greetings, Earthling."       "Greetings," I replied.
	"You are new to this world of pleasure, of decadence." The busker looked at his cap, overflowing with coins. "Which must be paid for. Even a man who is pure in heart and says his prayers by night must pay in cash if he is to enjoy life and finance his vice."
	"Words of wisdom," I said. "Rhymes, too."
     "That is why they call me Shaman. I think. It may be because I regularly use hallucinogens, though. I am unsure. One can never be confident in a universe he did not create. But I correct myself: in a universe I do not recall creating. I would not put it past me, however. This universe seems to have a sick perversity which matches my own. And my memory is not good. Tat tvam asi."
	"Is that Peitouian?" I asked this strange man.
	"No. Sanskrit. Long extinct Earther language. It means 'I am the whole world.' They didn't know about the infinity of the cosmos. Lucky. Easy being a solipsist back then.
	"But," he continued. "I think it more likely I am a parasite. As are we all. Based on the evidence I've seen so far, that is."
	I pondered the thought. Shaman looked at me. "What brings you to this heavenhole?"
	I recognized his long, blonde hair. The guitar player in Gramp's holofax which spurred my exit from Earth. For some reason my life history erupted from my lips. Shaman interrupted me.
	"I think I understand. I was a spiv on Earth, but can imagine what hell being a suit must have been." He spit. "Time constraints," he said, shuddering. "A major sin, in my book."
	"What?"
	"Compartmentalizing time like it was capable of being quantified. The Supreme Being would not be pleased."
	"How do you know?" I said sarcastically.
	"Actually, I do not. But if he is really me, I would not be pleased. But I know of beings that have met Him. Or at least someone who claims to be Him. And I do not recall them claiming to meet me, so likely He is not me. However, my memory is poor. Have I said that before?"
	"What, a dinner date with the Supreme Being?"
	"In a sense."

	I had had enough. I realized the quake had stopped some time ago. I bid Shaman good-bye and journeyed back onto the streets. As I walked up the stairs, I could hear his guitar. I put my Walkman back on, not surprised it was the same song, the same chord, as Shaman was now playing.
	Above ground all seemed as before. The streets and sky were jammed with vehicles, all contributing their exhausts to the soup. I looked to the building that had collapsed. It was being rebuilt. Things moved quickly on Peitou.
	I stood on the corner, watching for my bus. A couple of my friends had hoverscooters; they said it was the only way to go. I was wary of the danger. Perhaps in the future I would get one.
	Peitou had recently began using Earther numbers on buses, part of their national goal to bring the populace to Earther fluency.
	Good luck, from what I had seen.  I spotted my bus, number 54, in the far lane. Weaving my way through the inching traffic, I climbed aboard. Shaman's Supreme Being was with me, I guess, because I found a seat. Meteor-strike odds. I sat back for the long ride. My friends had not lied about the working hours but they had neglected to tell me that the commute was as long as the workday. Each direction.
	Traffic was light; my bus made my stop in two hours. A record. The fact I knew that and which stop was mine added to the proof that my conscious mind didn't have much responsibility. Obviously I had been navigating successfully, despite my lack of recall. What the hell were the duties of my consciousness? Apparently I had been managing quite well for two weeks on a foreign planet without it.
	"You've been drinking too much," it said.
	Its purpose came back.
	I also recalled I lived in a dink with several peer group members. I couldn't remember which but suspected they ebbed and flowed, anyway.
	As the bus slowed, I thanked the Supreme Being for the seat; normally the ride consisted of Peitouians with their faces in my crotch. Not on purpose (I think); it was a result of their short stature. Or my giant one. I gave no indication I was about to get off the bus. Luckily someone else had pulled the buzzer. I planned my route, knowing I would flatten several natives, including an elderly female near the door, but it could not be helped. When the time was ripe I sprung.
	I had almost made it before the riot started. As I had hoped, the mob's first reaction was to my amazing height, by Peitouian standards. Well, by any planet's standards, except Earth. The Peitouians' awe, manifested by their gaping fish-mouths, was quickly supplanted by a thought process:
	Huggphm Gaupph! (Very tall!) ... That Earthling is as tall as my house. Look at him! It is very funny ... I didn't notice him before ... where was he standing? ... if he was standing, I would have noticed him ... he must have been sitting ...... to sit you must have a seat...."
	A seat!
	The bus shook as the riot began. A seat was something to tell offspring about! I was close to the door but lost ground as the crowd pushed towards where I had been sitting. I fought, aiming for the open door, when the bus driver put the bus into gear.
	Adrenaline raced through my system, endocrine overdrive. Supreme Being help any Peitouians in my way. I bowled them over with strategic flips of my hips, jumped over them, and simply flattened some. They were not offended, being regular bus patrons.
	The door was almost closed; the bus jerked forward. Sweat poured from my brow; I did not want to find out what the next stop was. There were rumors of Earthlings who had missed their stop, never to be seen again.
	One thing stood between me and freedom. The elderly Peitouian woman.
	With a gentle flick of my hip I propelled her into a mild are and grabbed the door, forcing it open. I jumped out as the driver hit second gear.
	I stood on the curb, catching my breath. I lit a deathstick. I noted I was smoking a local brand, Eternal Life. I suspected Earth brands were expensive, which probably was why I was smoking a local one. Who knew though? Maybe I liked them. I tried, but could not recall the reasons behind my brand preference. 54
	I recognized my building and went inside. The doorman nodded, like he recognized me. Which was possible, but my guess was he assumed any Earthling that entered the building were supposed to be there. You know the saying: All Earthlings looked alike.
	It would explain how all the Earthlings jammed into the dink made it past him, despite the fact many were known criminals.
	As usual, a priming -- party -- was in full swing. I was tired so took a inhale of the current hot loid, Sonic, smuggled from Earth. It was illegal but so was everything, including teaching Earther.
	Gramps saw me and walked away from a group of female Peitouians. They looked about, then ran to Neon, entertaining himself in the corner.
	I grabbed a loaded Crab, a device filled with loid. I clamped the Crab to the lobe between my nostrils. The pinchers stung but the pain was jettisoned with a quick inhale. My brain demanded a smile. So I did.
	Gramps wasn't much for loids but grabbed a Crab anyway.
	"Everything is illegal but nothing is against the law," I said. "I am beginning to understand."
	"Perhaps everything is against the law but nothing is illegal. I am unsure. A matter of semantics, or whatever term is used to describe such things. I should know: I am an Earther teacher."
	"Me also. How are you?"
	"I am fine. And you?"
	The conversation didn't deserve an answer and Gramps didn't expect one. I looked about the room. On Earth it would be a rancid dink but here it fit the circumstances. It had come with a nice set of carved fungus furniture, set close to the ground. After all, the locals would never make the IBA (Interplanetary Basketball Association). The floor consisted of stones of some sort of fossilized fungus -- a popular lifeform on Peitou, a natural resource used for everything from Peitouians, beer, to ... floors. Ancient Earth music blared from the stereo, a portable model called a "ghetto blaster," paralyzing the phlems. Phlems were the local equivalent to Earth's cockroaches. I suspected the music's rhythmic pulse was in some way similar to their mating call.
	Either that or the bugs like to hump ghetto blasters. Certainly more than I could count were attempting to do so. 56
I assumed they were males. Or did females do the humping on this world?
	No. I remembered that.
	Not trusting my brain's storage abilities, I jotted down a note on a piece of paper. It didn't seem important, but who knew in this universe? Perhaps the insight could be made into a revolutionary phlem trap.
	"Rock and roll is a bug aphrodisiac."
	The music blared on. "I'11 sleep when I'm dead...."
	I looked at Gramps. "How and when," I said.
	He laughed. "Your first two week prime?"
	I nodded.
	"Chemical lobotomy is the only way. You couldn't have coped with this place. Most teachers don't last a week. Two weeks? You're a veteran. I hope you had fun, although I know you did since I was there. I hear you are gainfully employed. To use a cliché."
	"It's a class of Manchild's. It pays well. When is he coming back?"
	"When the sun rises and the moons set. How the fuck should I know? He went to Mongkut for a vacation. Many do not return. He did not hire an escort, which might be a mistake or the opposite, whatever that is."
	I laughed. "Fuck" had a nice ring; a forgotten word. Like most Earth exports, the profanity was ancient. It had spread on Peitou because of the ancient Earth 2D vids that were so widespread. I understood why "fuck" was the second most popular word on Earth in the Nationstate era. It just fit.
	Gramps took a snort on his Crab, tilting his head as he spoke. "Do you remember much?"
	I decided to try the term. I understood it was the most versatile word in ancient Earther, able to be used anywhere in a sentence. "Fuck nor" I said.
	"Spoken like a veteran," Gramps said.
	I remembered the peitouquake, as I assume such an event was called here. For the first time, I noticed large cracks in the walls. Phlems poured in the opening; that was where they were coming from.
	I pointed out the cracks to Gramps. Smog was sifting in -- or was deathstick smoke sifting out? "During the peitouquake...?"
	Gramps smiled. "Peitouquake?"
	"What do they call them?"
	"Earthquakes. At least that is what I teach. In local dialect, beep hoot pheee phugh." He spit, having to clear his nostrils to reach the last syllable.
	"What does that mean?"
	"The Supreme Being's gas."
	I was confused. "I thought the local religion did not contain a deity."
	"Just the export religion. The natives realized Earthlings would never buy yet another deity, so they export a religion without one, instead based on "Cosmic Flow." The religion actually comes from the planet Jungo, but it wasn't copyrighted so the Peitouians stole it. A smart marketing move, if you ask me. Many Earthlings are pretty tired of the deity concept. Me, for one. And the Supreme Being doesn't mind, I understand."
	I had ceased to pay attention. There was a drunken, rambling side of my friends that I didn't grasp. Perhaps I would after a while. Perhaps I had, but forgotten. Perhaps understanding would come back with a prime. I reached for a barley pop. Excuse my Earther: fungus pop.
	When I looked back at Gramps, he was still talking to me. I nodded, as if I had been in the conversation, then interrupted. There was something I had been meaning to ask; perhaps I already had but didn't remember. If so, no harm in asking again. It was accepted in the peer group that short term memory loss was not a fault.
	"Why did you bring me that yokroll on your last visit?" I asked.
	"Did you eat it?" Gramps asked. I nodded.
	"Really!" he replied. "Neon said you would, that your fridge would be so empty your need for calories other than from barley pop would override your olfactory senses. He was right. I owe him a case of fungus pop."
	Neon knew me well. "But why did you bring the yokroll?"
	"Not sure, really. Strange, now that I think about it. Why did I? Can't answer that. Can't answer a lot of things, though, so I won't give it much thought."
	"Why did you put a penny in it?"
	Gramps looked at me. "What's a penny?"
	"An ancient metal disc once used as a monetary unit on Earth."
	"Really. Why would it be in the yokroll? I bought it on Peitou, downstairs at the 7-11," Gramps said.
	I changed the subject. "I met an Earthling today, in a subwalk..."
	"Shaman?" Gramps asked.
	"Yes. Do you know him?" It was a stupid question. Of course Gramps knew him; how else could have Shaman been in the holofax Gramps had sent me; the one that caused me finally to quit my job.
	"A stupid question," Gramps said. "How else could have Shaman been in the holofax I sent your the one that caused you finally to quit your job?"
	"Is he dangerous?"
	"That is an ambiguous question. To whom?" Gramps paused. "Or is it 'to who?' Damn, this Earther."
	I felt stupid. "To himself?"
	"Of course," Gramps said. "Aren't we all? If it wasn't for ourselves, we would probably live forever. I do not think Shaman is a threat to the continued existence of the universe, but I have been wrong before. I busk with him from time to time. Not Earther, but music. He is a good guitarist and has an expansive knowledge of ancient Earth tunes. Beware of him, though."
	"Why? Is he mentally ill? Dangerous? Because he seems telepathic? Because he hasn't taken a bath for years? Because he claims to have second-hand knowledge of the Supreme Being?"
	"No," Gramps replied.
	"Then why?"
	"He never pays for his beers."

CHAPTER 10

	I awoke during what I assumed was the next day and reached for my alarm clock. It was gone. I looked about the room and located it. Hanging in tatters from the ceiling fan, it spun in nauseating circles. I could still make out the time. Almost. It was either fifteen after four or fifteen after fourteen. Either I had awoke sixteen hours early for class or an hour late. I choose the latter, since vague memories existed from six hours ago.
	If it was the next day. Maybe it was the next week.
	It didn't matter. Vocalizing the archaic term I was now so fond of, I dismissed my concerns. It was not my class, but Manchild's.
	"Fuck it," I said to no one, except the phlems on the walls, floor, and ceiling. And bed. I killed those, in hopes of encouraging an evolutionary lesson.
	Concentrating, I recalled Gramps and I had taken some local debauchkas -- I wasn't sure if the word was Peitouian or ancient Earther slang -- to an "HTV." HTV was short for holotelevision, a place where you chose the holovid you wanted and watched it in a private room. Drinks came with the price of admission. All holovids were available, from the most current Earth films to purple ones from every planet, in which various cognizant phylums had their ways with each other.
	It was entertaining although often hard to tell which was the male and which was the female. Usually the humping motion gave it away but not always.
	I lit a deathstick and relaxed as carbon monoxide replaced oxygen in my bloodstream. I needed a vacation. I had been on Peitou over two weeks. It was time for a break. No matter I couldn't recall much of the time -- that was normal. And who would want to?
	I called the local EarthEX office to check my balance. I was rich, with more credits than when I landed. Futhark -- no, fuck. I liked the word better: the sound of a veteran. And only one syllable; much better flow. Two weeks! I had bettered the stay of most.
	Having a credit card like EarthEX made me part of the elite. None of my friends had arrived with such creditworthiness -- they had never had a job before, let alone credit. But being part of the elite had its drawbacks. Peitou had a variable currency: sometimes open, sometimes closed. The EarthEX office explained that currently Peitou was attempting to stabilize exchange rates and no withdrawals in Earth currency were allowed.
	So I could not access a cash advance, only use my credits at establishments that took the credit card.
	I was rich, with no money and lots of credits.
	I could go the black market, where you bought jewelry on your card, selling it back at half the purchase price. But that was an act of desperation.
	I decided to switch my credit surplus from Earthling securities to a Peitouian stock fund. It was riskier but Peitou's market doubled with every hangover. Also, it would allow access to my credits since my funds would be in local currency. But it took a week to switch over, per Peitouian law.
	I couldn't wait. There was only one answer: busking Earther. I stumbled downstairs, into the muck, alert for hoverscooters. I put my smogglasses on but took them off. The streets were more crowded, more noisy, more polluted than I remembered. My recovering brain couldn't handle it. Better a comforting blur. I put my Walkman on. The Dead again.
	"One man gathers what another man spills...."
	My head complained at movement so I stopped at the 7-11 on the ground floor for some help. It must be an ancient Earthling franchise, I realized, with its two Earther numbers. I hadn't thought about it before. Seven-eleven? What could it mean? An Earther dice game?
	My head hurt so I bought a bottle of deerpiss and a case of fungus pop. It took five to fool my brain.
	The subwalks were best for Earther busking, Gramps had told me. Stumbling into the dim light I took my earphones off. How did you busk Earther? From what I had seen you needed a sign advertising your rates. Which I didn't have. Perhaps I wasn't a veteran, despite the constant interjection of fuck into my speech.
	I looked about for something to use as a poster and decided on the flattened cardboard from the case of fungus pop. I took the tubes of beer out, placing them on the ground. I realized I didn't know enough Peitouian to compose a bilingual sign. I didn't know enough of the language to write "hello." Not that it mattered since I had nothing to write with.
	The song from my Walkman sounded so good my knees involuntarily bent. As I pranced about I realized I could barely hear the earphones since I had taken them off. No, there was something else. A guitar.
	I recognized the tune. It was the same my Walkman was playing. I also correctly summarized the guitarist.
	I walked to the other end of the subwalk; again it was empty of the usual hawkers, and this time it had nothing to do with a peitouquake -- earthquake -- unless one was occurring now. I didn't think so, but the water in my ears might be more displaced than I realized. First lesson of the universe: anything is possible.
	Ahead, I saw a silhouette against the misty, dim lights. There he was, entertaining himself with his guitar until other options presented themselves. I cleared my throat and spit, the Earthling's equivalent the Peitouian hello.
	Shaman was much more fluent. The phlems gathered quickly at his greeting, lump-like on the floor.
	He wiped his mouth and switched to Earther. "Greetings, Earthling. Or perhaps I should say aloha." I knew the word, a freak memory. "Aloha," I said. "Care for a partner?"
	"'OK' as the locals say." He reached into his guitar case and pulled out a new price list. He posted it and removed the old one. I realized our entire conversation had been transacted while he played his guitar. That was not possible, since he had just used one hand to take down the old sign and post the new one.
	I turned my Walkman off. Shaman stopped playing.
	After a few seconds a Peitouian walked up and read the new price list.
	"Hello," Shaman said, forcing the Peitouian into a conversation. I saw why Shaman was a successful Earther busker.
	The Peitouian smiled. "Hello."
	"How are you?" Shaman asked.
	"I am fine. And you?"
	"I am OK."
	The Peitouian smiled. "I too. I am OK."
	Advanced Earther.
	Shaman pointed at me. "My friend..." He did not know my name.
     The Peitouian smiled as he looked at me. "Hello."
	"Hello" I replied. "How are you?"
	"I am fine. And you?"
	"I am ... OK."
	"OK," he said. "You friend Shaman?"
	"Yes. You friend of Shaman?"
	The Peitouians nodded furiously "Yes, yes." He looked at Shaman, who smiled at him. "Shaman very best friend."      
	"What is your name?" I asked.
	"Phegmlipp," he said.
	"His Earther name is Mick Jagger," Shaman said.
	The Peitouian bowed nervously. "Yes, yes. Mick Jagger." He beamed at Shaman. "Humble teacher name gave me. Very honorable, Shaman says me. Name ancient Earthling king."
	Shaman winked.
	"Hello, Mick Jagger," I said. "How are you doing?"
	He twittered nervously.
	I realized my error. He didn't understand; I had not phrased my response correctly. "Hello, Mick Jagger. How are you?"
	He beamed. "I am fine. How are you?"
	Shaman interrupted, throwing out the phrase that made him so much money. "Your Earther is very good, Mick Jagger."
	Mick Jagger responded to his ability to converse with two Earthlings by throwing an amazing amount of currency into Shaman's hat before walking away.
	"It's an art, really," Shaman said. "Despite your newness, you seem to have the talent." Shaman divided the take, handing me half. "New blood is an effective management tool. Supreme Being be praised."
	Within a couple of hours I had financed my vacation. I bid Shaman aloha, but didn't think he noticed. He had drank the deerpiss and most the fungus pop. Gramps had warned me. I managed a prime, a fairly admirable achievement from what others had told me of sharing inter with Shaman.
	Mongkut was inexpensive. I had enough spending money for a few weeks. The shuttle tickets could be charged on EarthEX.
	Mongkut was paradise, I had heard. Ninety-ninth water; the only land was scattered islands. All with endless beaches and uncorrupted reefs. Not coral, but a local polyp
that was close. I didn't know the Mongkut term. The island breezes were cool, the waves friendly, and the water warm. The sea creatures were astounding; they came in every shape, size, and color. And none ate hominids. So far that is. They hadn't seen many. Or tasted them.
	More important, everything was legal and nothing was against the law on Mongkut. It would be a refreshing change from a planet where everything was against the law but nothing was illegal.
	In retrospect: it's hard to say which is best.

CHAPTER 11

The length of the Peitou to Mongkut flight escaped me. I suspect my prime -- pharms and inter, for the record -played a part, but the time dilation was likely caused by the lack of a reference. I had left my cyberwatch on Peitou; I was on vacation. It was my biological clock that would dictate my actions, not some machine on my wrist. Dinnertime? When I was hungry. Bedtime? When I was tired. Primetime? When I breathed.
	We landed in Mongkut City, the planet's capital and the only megatropolis on the planet. The locals had not used Earther when naming it but the city's true name was uncomfortable to pronounce in Earther and, as throughout the universe, was supplanted by that dominant language I was taught as a child.
	Thank the Supreme Being, too. I had no other useful skills, despite my education. But I could speak Earther fluently, like I had spoken it all my life. Which made sense. And luckily, though my years of pursuing the perfect prime had weeded out the weak brain cells, the damage seemed focused on the quantitative side. And the need to add, subtract, multiply, divide, or take a square root or derivative was as necessary as hunting skills in today's society, where even my watch could calculate pi to a million places if I ever felt the need to.
	Which I never did.
	As we taxied to the gate I surveyed the surroundings through the tiny, microdust-scratched window. Spaceports were a good way to appraise civilizations; infrastructure representations. A clean, efficient, boring airport meant the planet would be clean, efficient, and boring.
	From what I could see, cleanliness, efficiency, and boredom would not be a concern. The shuttle halted with a screech when a family of Mongkuts, who apparently used the weeds that grew in the asphalt cracks as feeding grounds for their domesticated animals, overgrown millipedes, wandered onto the runway.
	At least that was my assumption. If I hadn't known what the dominant species looked like -- with their upright stance and tentacles -- I would have been hard pressed to determine which was the cognizant species. Both were eating the weeds.
	Mud shacks lined the runway and large groups of natives waved at the shuttle like Earthlings confronted with a train in the countryside. I waved back, a silly response since they could not see me. I suspected train passengers on Earth did the same.
	The Mongkuts were happy, but poor. Perhaps there is a correlation? Unlucky souls. They were poor, yes, but had a society that promoted family unity and the pleasures it brought. And a lack of concern for anything in the future beyond the next meal.
	A worthwhile existence. Unless you are living it, I suppose. Earth apes once had such an Eden but destroyed it with their concern for the future. Worse, worrying about the future brought monetary success. Planning and all that. The death of happiness. Apparently every cognizant lifeform in the cosmos was preprogrammed to be blinded by hopes and dreams that monetary success was supposed to bring, in hopes of a new holoset or perhaps a hoverscooter to get nowhere faster, discarding in a nanosecond the traditional values that it had taken evolution millions of years to create.
	Oh, well. May bon fa. Mongkut would be destroyed soon, by contact with Earth -- and Zippon, Peitou, and the other "civilized" planets. Its annual economic growth rate was already over one hundred percent, which didn't mean much yet since the base was almost zero. Soon it would; although my left brain had been largely eliminated I could roughly project what hundred-fold exponential growth would do.
	To my credit: I could still handle round numbers.
	And the economy would bustle, constrained only by the inability of businesspeople to speak Earther. Mongkut would have to pay high wages to native Earther speakers, just in time for a wandering Earthling who was damn sick of Peitou.
	Solipsism seemed apparent, except for my contact with others with an equal claim.
	We disembarked. I followed Gramps's advice, phoning a native Mongkut he recommended, who specialized in making sure Earthlings made it onto their return flights in addition to organizing what occurred in between. I recalled Manchild did not follow Gramps's advice and had not been heard from for a Brim solar year. I planned to look him up.
	The phone was answered on the first ring. "Hello," it said.
	"Hello," I responded, per what was now intergalactic protocol. Gramps hadn't mentioned if the Mongkut was male or female and I couldn't stand the pronoun "it" when speaking with someone in the first person.
	"Hello," I repeated. I am an Earthling on vacation. Are you male or female?"
	The voice giggled, and I knew, despite the lack of gender in the voicetones that it was a she.
	"Which you want?" Again the giggle.
	"Female. "
	"Then I am your man. Where you come from?"
	"Peitou. "
	"Friend of Gramps?"
	"Yes . "
	"How Gramps?"
	"Bored and lonely."
	"Good he himself. My name Mama. You need helper?"
	I was wary, despite Gramps's recommendations. "Yes. How much?"
	She laughed. "You no worry. You rich man. Earthling. All rich. Special service?"
	I hesitated. "What special service?" I asked. Ten minutes and I was dropping conjunctions. Why did they exist anyway?
	"Up to you. But know Earthling likes. Especially males. Very pre-die-table." She stumbled on the word, proud she got through it. "Double credits for full works. You sound like full male.   Big stud, you. I tell from voice. Never wrong yet. Ask customers."
	Stud? My brain sifted and located a reference about male equines on Earth, a species that had survived because it had the insight or luck to be domesticated by the apes that dominated the planet. Either that or something about a stiff metallic object that remained its rigidity when pounded into wood.
	I'm no linguist, but I suspected Mama was referring to the latter definition.
	"How long you got?" Mama asked.
	"Two weeks. How much?"
	"Maybe you want special, special service. Never no complaints. And make sure you get home. Must sign contract, though."
	"For what?"
	"Make sure you no sue if boys have to zap you. Tell truth: happened many times. Usually, as matter fact. Nobody want to leave. Pleasure center activated."
	I pondered. Special, special service? Hard to resist the duplication of such a juicy adverb.
	"How much?"
	"You at phone spaceport?" Mama asked.
	"Yes."
	Within seconds I was handed a microbong full of the sweetest bhang I had tasted. While it was crossing my brain barrier, expelling the worries that reverberated within, three female Mongkuts in skimpy tops surrounded me and began a coordinated caress with their tentacles. My brain raced: what could four upper appendages do? Times three?
	I picked the dangling receiver up. I could barely spit the short sentence out. "How much?"
	"You rich Earthling," Mama said. "Why care? Million credits, most. Maybe two. Three? Who know? I not Supreme Being. No complaints. Best time ever in wasted life. Not want to go homer but I make you. Part of contract."
	"You take the EarthEX card?" I asked.
	"Of course," Mama said. "Just signed up. I suc-cess-ful inter-galactic busy-ness-person you know."
	"Many multisyllable words, Mama," I said. "Your Earther very good."
	"You get ten percent discount, polite Earthling."
	On Earth I never questioned that I was a coherent being, in control of my actions. Oh, I had a subconscious to be surer but civilization kept it in check. On Mongkut, there was no civilization. Only whatever kept me happy.
	Once again the value of the conscious brain was questioned.
	Time passed quickly. Much too quickly. It passed so quickly it didn't pass at all.
	I screamed when my escorts arrived and damned them to Intergalactic Hell, whatever that was, as they dragged me away. Two weeks? Two minutes.
	I seemed to recall tearing off a couple of tentacles in my fury. I knew they regenerated like a skink's tail so felt no guilt, especially since I had no way of knowing if my recall was correct. Finally someone shot an airjet of something I would like to track down for personal use into my arm, and the next thing I knew Gramps was carrying me from the Peitou spaceport.
	Gramps opened my eyes with his thumbs.
	"How is Manchild?" He asked.
	"Who?" I managed.
	"Have a good time?" Gramps said, releasing his thumbs.  My eyelids responded to gravity.
	I muttered an incoherent response.
 	"What?" Gramps asked, leaning forward.
	"Mutter, mutter..."
	"That's what I thought you said."

CHAPTER 12

	Back on Peitou things quickly settled back to normal, whatever that was. On Earth the noun (verb? Don't ask me -- I only very good Earther teacher) had intonations of permanency. Out here in the outback it was more like an adverb.
	Outrageous wages for speaking my native language, monetary surplus, crowded streets, continuous primes and primings. Normal, except the strange rash in my private parts. At times I thought I felt movement, not a comfortable feeling: this was my crotch. I tried anything and everything; local herbal (i.e. fungus derivatives) remedies bought from the corner pharmacist, whom I knew well despite my short stay as he found it easy to ignore the need for prescriptions for pharms as long as you paid in cash and included a large tip, antibiotic ointments from Earth, even hot baths in the heavy-metal laced Peitouian water. Nothing worked, although the baths did slow things down.
	Even stranger, I began to awake at night with a prickly feeling. To my horror, when I viewed the affected area I found red welts which seemed to form a Earther letters. The first night I passed it off as an hallucination, a reasonable assumption in the circumstances -- Earther letters on my pecker? The second night, a dream. The third time scared me. I lit a deathstick to calm my nerves and awoke Gramps, who laughed.
	"You did have a good time on Mongkut, I see."
	"Probably," I said. "What is it?"
	"A sexual-transmitted disease."
	"A sexual-transmitted disease? That knows the Earther alphabet?"
	"It's cognizant. Evolution wastes no time on Mongkut, and God knows, to use an ancient Earther phrase which I quite like despite the fascination with the Supreme Being, that VD has plenty of opportunity there..."
	I was distracted. "What's the difference between God and the Supreme Being? Aren't they synonyms?"
	"I hate to give you the response that answers most, if not all questions, but I will: yes and no."
	"I know they come from different dogma," I said, forgetting my prickly pecker. "But I thought they were both Creators Of The Universe."
	"They are," Gramps said. "But there is a difference."
	"What's that?"
	"Speaking from a dogmatic sense?"
	"Yes," I replied. "What else?"
	"God cares. The Supreme Being does not. According to dogma, remember. I personally have spoke with neither."
	"What should I do?" I asked.
	"You woke me to ask me what dogma you should choose? Give me a break! And a long one, since I haven't slept for four days. Peitouians ones, mind you."
	"No, not that," I said. "More important. What should I do about this fluent rash?"
	"Mongkut is the pleasure planet, as you obviously found out," Gramps said. He rolled over and was snoring before I could reply. Learning to sleep quickly -- anytime, anywhere -- was a skill fast learned on Peitou. Or maybe it came from excessive use of stimulants.
	"What should I do?" I asked.
	Gramps opened his eyes but I saw no hint of awareness. "Go to sleep."
	"But what about me?"
	He stirred. "What about you? The disease is fatal to Mongkuts. What about your partner?" He snickered. "Excuse me. I don't want to be disrespectful to the dead -- not that I care, since there is plenty of life in this universe to go around, but just think: a month ago you were on Earth, slaving away your days doing Supreme Being, God if you prefer, knows what, worried about your credit card debts and if your dink would ever be paid off and if your contract spouse would shut up long enough to use her vocal orifice for something useful, and now you are in a far corner of the universe complaining about a self-aware venereal disease playing scrabble on your pecker.
	He had a point.
	"It's not fatal, as far I know," Gramps said. "To Earthlings. I've never had it, though, so you are not speaking with an expert. But know one."
	An easy guess. "Shaman," I said.
	"10-4, Rubber Duck," Gramps said. "To use a really outdated Earther term. And I understand Shaman carries on dialogues; slow, but apparently meaning..." He fell asleep before he could finish.
	I went back to my room. Although I had suppressed the knowledge, I was sure the first letter had been a "H." A capital, no less. The second, an "a," small case. The prickly feeling returned. Hesitant, I looked down. It was fading, but definitely an "d."
	"Had?"
	I went to the fridge and carried a case of fungus pop to bed.
	God? ... The Supreme Being? ... helps those who help themselves. And drunks, I had heard. I assume He watches drunks who help themselves very closely.
	Despite the very itchy and personal spelling beer within ten fungus pops I was asleep.

CHAPTER 13

	I looked everywhere for Shaman. Every subwalk, every bar, every barbershop. He was gone; vanished from the face of the universe. I asked every Earth expatriate I saw. They knew Shaman but none had seen him for weeks.
	I was free from letters for a few days. Perhaps the vile, carcinogenic Peitouian water had done the trick. I hoped so. I wouldn't survive many more baths. My hair was falling out in clumps.
	Manchild still had not returned from vacation so I continued to teach his class. I also picked up some seminars to prominent businessmen which paid extremely well. There were few Earther teachers with master degrees in Business, let alone any educational history.
	In fact, the letters “MBA” were a magic acronym. I say acronym because the locals couldn't understand which abbreviations to pronounce and which to enunciate letter by letter. So instead of M-B-A, it was Mmmba. Sounded like the ancient Earth dance.
	Let's be honest: the only reason the locals gave a shit about Earth and Earther was to make money. Who could blame them?
	And an Earther who know the big words used in the language of Earth money was valuable. And it would never end, as far as I could see. My clients ... it sounded better than students, and you could change more to "clients" than "students" were as fluent as Peitouians got, able to maintain fairly coherent conversations. But that was still a long way from market penetration cycles, S-curves, and R and D multipliers. A long way. I spent an entire class trying to get my clients to pronounce "R and D" instead of "RAND." I finally hit on the idea of using "all instead of "and." "
	The days passed without incident, until my rash reappeared during a class about productivity-based employee benefits. The rash's rebuttal was quick; perhaps the hot, murky baths had only been an evolutionary spur, weeding out the weak. I recalled life evolved quickly on Mongkut. The letters were now hourly: an "e" then "a" then "n."
	"ean?" "Had - ean" Perhaps a single word? "Hadean?"
	My students guessed incorrectly why I twitched, scratched my crotch, and left the room. They assumed it was the usual Earthling gastrointestinal reaction to the local cuisine. It was a reasonable assumption and close, in a physiological placement sense. And while I was getting used to drinking fungus, eating it remained another matter. It wasn't a taste problem; decades of bachelorhood had eliminated my taste buds. It was a digestive one; my stomach seemed intent on liquefying any Peitouian food that entered. Perhaps it was normal -- I'm no expert on native stool texture. Rather than endure discomfort I followed Gramps's advice: Eat at Earthling fastfood restaurants.
	They were sprouting everywhere, the most visible sign of the speed of galactic economic integration. MacHappy's, MeatKing, Dubinkey's. They were a piece of Earth available to all. And packed to the gills -- no pun intended since, despite the fish mouths, the locals were not descended from fish, but fungus. Surprise!
	Prices were expensive as the food was grown on special hydroponic farms, but it tasted like home. Despite the cost, Peitouians packed the restaurants. Not only could you eat Earthling food, look at Earthling pictures on the walls, but you could marvel at the Earthlings who frequented the place. Perhaps even talk to them. I had taken to wearing a cap that said, in Peitouian, "No talk or I eat offspring."
	The expatriate who thought the caps up was wealthy, I was sure. For they worked. Although impolite, I started wearing it on the street. The locals left me alone. There were rumors of Peitouian children being eating by Earthlings spoken to while wearing the cap, but I assumed they were just that, rumors -- spread by the cap's manufacturer. Who knew, though? To Earthlings, fungus was fungus.
	So I ate like on Earth. The galaxy was different but the hamburgers were the same. Thank the Supreme Being for quality control. If you closed your eyes and ears you could imagine yourself back home when you took a bite. Not that I wanted to be, but I'd found even those who had no inkling to return had pockets of homesickness in their brains that popped out occasionally.
	Earthling fastfood was expensive but I could afford it. It was also unhealthy; I assumed my nanomachines were multiplying in records numbers.
	I was content to let my clients think I had stomach problems. Explaining I had a self-aware venereal disease would have to be saved for a later class.
	"Hadean." Hmmm. Perhaps my disease could not spell well. A definite possibility, my brain said, unable to recall any intergalactic viral spelling bee competitions. My brain sifted, attempting to find a combination of letters that would make sense.
	I canceled my next class. The onslaught of letters was increasing. "W." "a." The arrival of each was followed by a sharp sting, like I had been seeking a new sexual experience by putting my pecker in a beehive. I felt compelled to look at each letter as it welted majestically. I selected a hovertaxi, wary of the response on the bus when I lowered my shorts -- at native eye level -- to check my tubular scrabble board.
	The taxi driver watched in the rearview mirror as I peered down my shorts. "You need female?" he said. "Know good barber shop. Fix hair, fix everything. Good price. I know. Sister work there. Special service. You handsome Earthling. All girls want."
	"No thanks."
	He sucked his nose in. "OK, OK. Half price for you."
	"No. "
	It was difficult to maintain two conversations simultaneously. The letter pains were coming quicker. "n." "t." I saw I had insulted the driver. "Sure sister very beautiful," I said. "But Earthling sick."
	He was still upset, so I said the magic mantra. "Your Earther very good."
	He popped his nose in and out and bowed over and over, as far as the steering wheel would let him. "Thank you, thank you."
	He pulled to my building. I gave him a large tip, to split it with his beautiful sister, then went inside. The doorman smiled, as he always did no matter what the Earthling was doing this time, when I convulsed like the surprised nesting ground of a tarantula hawk. "e."
	The next letter was a gimme. It hit in the elevator. "d."
	"Wanted? "
	Wanted? What, a host? A symbiotic one, whose gain was being entertained by a conversation with his reproductive organ? I was becoming accustomed, in a sense, but food source was an unanswered question. While I hadn't noticed any conspicuous consumption the thought weighed heavily.
	I hated to wipe out life in any form, self-aware or not, but took comfort in that it seemed one of major purposes of my species. Having destroyed most lifeforms on its home planet, for large profit, it now taught such exploitation to new races on new planets. For larger profits.
	The correlation between Mankind's riches and its elimination of lifeforms was well plotted, statistically valid. Perhaps such success could have been achieved without the slaughter, but since it hadn't happened it wasn't a side often argued.
	Why would it? If something was extinct, it was extinct. Dead, dead, dead. After all, ninety-nine point nine percent of Earth species became extinct before hominoids started fondling themselves. Earth was not a safe place, conscious apes or not.
	I planned to continue my species' legacy. I lay in the bathtub all day, constantly filling it with hot water. Heavy metals would leach into my system but that was the price I had to pay. And I was rich enough to journey to Earth for a harvestclone, if need be. I had left a small fund to keep them alive, just in case. I made a mental note to transmit some credits home to keep my brainless brothers alive. In fact, maybe I would move them to Zippon. They had harvestclone facilities and was much closer. It would be expensive but, using that malleable term: What the fuck.
	Puckered, a lead-lined prune, I collapsed in bed. I didn't bother to dry myself since the humidity would cover me with sweat faster than I could towel off. I lay back on the bed and felt the urge for a deathstick. I sat up and noticed large clumps of hair on the pillow. Curious, I ran my hand through my hair and it slid off like a toupee on hot butter. I noticed my body was totally devoid of hair; legs, armpits, golden triangle. Hopefully it would grow back. If it didn't, so what? No hair check worries for me. Perhaps finally I would get a nickname -- Cueball. Had a nice ring.
	No letters appeared that night, nor ever again. Thank the Supreme Being. I dreamed my penis was the Goodyear blimp, testicles serving as gondola. Letters slowly crossed the electronic screen, one by one. H-A-D-E-A-N
W-A-N-T-E-D ... H-A-D-E-A-N..."

CHAPTER 14

	I awoke to Manchild's return. Thank the Supreme Being; no more teaching his classes. While the pay was high, it was not astronomic. Like my "clients" paid.
	A party began, of course. It had the appearance of a major one since Manchild's re-emergence presented at least the semblance of an excuse. I canceled my "seminars" for the week, those that remained now that Manchild was back. Better safe than sorry. While I knew my clients wouldn't say a word if I did not show up, they would think it extremely professional for an Earthling to give any warning. And I was a professional.
	Snicker, snicker, guffaw, guffaw.
	I hadn't seen Manchild since he left Earth many years... months? ago, excluding the occasional hologram. He had de-evolved, a suitable but difficult goal in an universe which seemed intent on pushing lifeforms forward whether they wanted to go or not. He looked like a werewolf in an ancient 2D vid, except his facial hair was longer. And unkempt.
	He had not spoken Earther for a long time and had difficulty communicating. Later, as our prime evolved we began to comprehend him. Whether this was a result of Manchild's Earther skills returning or the inter I could not say.
	We learned he was using a Mongkut dialect spoken only on the island he was marooned on. Before he had left Peitou, he had arranged to contribute to the Empty Universe new guide for Mongkut. Empty Universe was a budget traveller series which expatriates treated like born-again Christians did the Bible. It -- Empty Universe -- I haven't followed the Bible closely, as it seemed lacking in specific hotel recommendations -- was amazingly accurate on what to do, where to go, and how not to die when on a foreign planet. All important.
	Mongkut was still being explored and Manchild was assigned several distant islands of which little was known. His hovercar had crashed offshore and he was rescued by the
natives, who had never seen an Earthling in person, only in 2D reruns of an ancient Earth sitcom called Gilligan's Island.
	Manchild bore a close enough resemblance to the lead character that they declared him King. As part of his duties, he was forced to reproduce with every female in the island chain. This was a formidable assignment, even for Manchild, a.k.a. the Human Tripod.
	Manchild took a swig of fungus pop and a drag from his deathstick.
	"Never again will I ejaculate..." He caught the sight
of an Earther girl whom Neon had coerced to remove her top.      "...with another species...." he finished.
	Eventually he had been rescued by the Empty Universe staffer hired to replace him. If anything, despite or because of the constant emptying of his seminal vesicles, he was healthier than before. Only high protein, low cholesterol fruits grew on the islands, and the lone mind-altering substance beside ten orgasms a night was a species of hallucinogenic fish, which Manchild had nicknamed fryfish. He explained they were difficult to catch but were attracted to light.
	"I think it's extinct now," Manchild said. "Let there be light."
	Sensing a serious primefest, I wanted to give myself enough time to recover. I canceled another week of classes. Excuse me: seminars. It cost me more than the monthly salary of Sonz's CEO but ... what the fuck.
	Time passed, as it always does.
	Party is not a descriptive adjective. Or noun. I had underestimated when I told my class I would be off for two weeks. A month had already passed; some party-pooper was keeping track. My credits began to run short but I kept going.
	When the going gets prime, the primed get going.
	Details are vague. Somewhere in there we were arrested for allegedly violating a local beast of burden -- a charge I Vehemently deny if only for the sake of my own conscience; consumed our local convenience store's yearly allotment of fungus pop; and journeyed to the Mongkut island where Manchild was the Son of Heaven. I dimly recalled financing some of the party's tickets.
	EarthEX! Don't leave your planet without it!
	Manchild was amazed, as were the rest of us.  His interbreeding between the species was successful.  And the girth of Manchild's loins was impressive, by any standards. Mutant Manchilds were everywhere, some with tentacles, but most with arms.
	While Manchild further solidified his claim we busily rigged up the spotlight we had brought with us.
	Fryfish weren't extinct, we discovered.
	Perhaps now.

CHAPTER 15

	Shaman arrived after the party had returned from Mongkut. He had been seeking spiritual solace on Jungo -home to the Peitouian export religion. Shaman's quest seemed strange since the religion avoided the pretense of a Supreme Being -- whom I thought was dear to Shaman's heart.
	Contradictions run rampant in the depths of the universe.
	Jungo was a gigantic world, the largest known not only in the Brim system, but the universe.  Aside from uninhabitable gas giants, of course.  Despite its size it was extremely overpopulated and very poor. It was relatively safe for Earthlings. Jungo's government came under constant criticism from the United Planets (which Earth dominated) because of its repression and habit of slaughtering its citizens. But Earthlings were encouraged to visit since Jungo was soliciting foreign investment. No matter that Earthlings who went did so because they didn't have enough credits to go anywhere else; an Earthling was an Earthling. The authorities on Jungo could not distinguish between an responsible Earthling and the opposite.
	In reality, if you were bipedal you were safe. The various pigments of Earthlings confused them. After eating a couple of well-tanned Earthlings and suffering the trade restrictions, they found it safer to assume any bipedal creature was from Earth.
	Which was more of a problem for Shaman than it sounds since he tended to resort to quadrupedalism late at night.
	His arrival caused a roaring cheer lasting for several minutes, shaking the flimsy foundations of the building. The room was much larger than before; while we were on Mongkut the complex had been demolished and rebuilt because of the earthquake damage.
	If Shaman was anyone else, he wouldn't have been recognizable, covered with an even layer of Jungonese dirt, his scraggly hair somehow sprouting to waist-length in a few weeks. But he wasn't anyone else, so he looked more like Shaman than when he left.
	He stumbled to the center of the room with the swagger of a man who had been drinking alien inter for weeks without stopping, a high probability. He climbed onto a table, the highest point, and spread his arms wide. The room quieted. "It's a priming," he belched.
	It was official. The fatigue that had followed the first month dissipated rapidly. Shaman climbed off the table and walked towards me. He invoked the Peitouian military salute, grabbing his crotch. I returned the gesture.
	"Greetings," I said in Peitouian, clearing my nostrils and spitting. I was gaining fluency, at least at saying hello. "I'm amazed you heard of our party. But it has lasted a long time."
	"Really?" Shaman said. "How long?"
	"A bit over a month, so far."
	"A Peitouian month?"
	"Yes."
	"I though I felt a hum in the prime line, but I had no idea."
	"The prime line?"  I asked.
	"The prime line.   You know, the galactic force which transmits news of worthwhile parties."
	"Oh." I had never heard of it and didn't believe it. "We must have caused a major hum."
	"What? A major hum?"      Shaman chuckled. "I felt a minor permutation. Thought   it stellar interference. Otherwise I would be late."  He laughed harder, Peitouian style, mucus flung this way and that. I pulled the sarong over my head.
	"A major hum! Har-hardy-har-har. Now the   party on..." He paused.  "I forget the planet. No matter.  That was a major hum.  Complete static. Lasted from 101  until 104." "Galactic years?" I asked.
	"Yes," Shaman replied. "Why?"
	"It's only 103."
	"Is it?" He cocked his head. "You're right. Party's still going strong."
	"Then how did you know about this?" I asked, insulted.  Stellar interference! It was my longest prime.
	"Fish."
	"What?"
	"Fish."
	"What?" I thought he was speaking Peitouian.
	"Fish, damn it. Fish. F-i-s-h. I heard you had some Mongkut fryfish."
	"Yes," I said. I didn't want know how he knew. I motioned to the kitchen and took the last fish from the freezer, hidden behind a pile of dead, frozen phlems. At least I thought the phlems were dead; the fryfish showed definite signs of nibbling.
	I handed it to Shaman. A phlem was attached to the tail. Shaman flicked it to the floor with his deft fingers, honed by decades of guitar playing. The phlem landed on its back, its twelve legs flailing against the atmosphere.
	"Normally I believe in the sanctity of all life," Shaman said. "But phlems suck." He ground the bug into its base molecules with his boot. "Sorry, friend. Perhaps in the next life." His face took on a strange expression as he pushed the phlem's remains under the fridge. He looked at me.  "Do you believe in concurrent reincarnation?"
	"Perhaps," I said. "Hard to tell since I don't know what it is."
	He raised an eyebrow. "You don't know the export religion very well, do you?"
	“It's just a product." I looked at Shaman. "Isn't it?"
	"Oh, no. It comes from Jungo and is very real. The Peitouians just realized it could be packaged and sold to Earth. Disrespectful, but profitable. Hard to argue with that. I'm not sure if the Supreme Being would like it, but who knows nowadays?"
	I spoke, more to stop his ramblings than to get an answer. I was sure there was no God in the export religion. "So what is concurrent reincarnation?"
	"A fair question. There are no dumb questions, only stupid ones. Concurrent reincarnation is the belief that all time exists side by side and..."
	I interrupted. I knew what reincarnation was. "When you die, you come back as another being, its makeup determined by how well you lived your prior life. For example, if you lived a terrible life you might come back as a cockroach."
	Shaman looked down. "Or phlem. I have a terrible feeling I just stepped on myself."
	It made sense. Why else would a frozen phlem spend its last lifeforce crawling to and eating a hallucinogenic fish if it wasn't Shaman?
	"Oh well," Shaman said. "And so it goes." He toyed with his fish and grabbed a fungus pop from the fridge.
	I motioned towards the microwave. We had one of the first on the planet; Gramps had brought it from Earth. It was one of the few product lines in which the export restrictions had worked; the Earth monopoly had only allowed a few rangetops in.
	Shaman took a swig of fungus pop. "No, no," he said. "Much more potent raw." He raised the fryfish to his mouth and took a bite. I turned away as the colorful organs were revealed. Shaman smiled at my reaction. "Or rare, if you prefer that terminology," he said. He belched then slurped a phosphorescent intestine hanging down his chin into his mouth.
	His eyes dilated, growing purple. Maybe he was right; when the fryfish was cooked it took several minutes for physiological symptoms to appear. Shaman smiled non-symmetrically.
	"Well, Earthling. What's new?" he asked.
	I told him about the cognizant VD. I thought of all people he would understand.
	"Wonderful. You are a lucky man. Blessed are the Greeks. How is your civilization?"
	"What?"
	"How is your civilization? For as mankind is a parasite to the Supreme Being your friends are a parasite to you.  To be nurtured and loved."
	"The Supreme Being loves mankind?" I asked.
	Shaman's pupils obscured the whites of his eyes. "Who knows? It makes a nice analogy. What does your crotch tell you?"
	"I think I killed them."
	"That is truly a strange message. 'I think I killed them, "' he repeated. "What could it mean? Perhaps they are saying. . . "
	"No," I said. "First person. Not the message. I, as in me; think, as in a cognitive process; I, again as in me; killed them -- I wiped them out. They are dead. That is not the message they welted onto my dick! "
	Shaman realized what I was saying and screamed.
	"What? "
	I also screamed since somebody had cranked the ghetto blaster up. "...Everybody is their own personal savior...." it blared.
	"I killed them," I repeated.
	Shaman was incensed, tearing his shirt off, dancing about the kitchen. Just as suddenly he calmed down. It was an impressive psychotic display.
	"I am an Earthling," he said. "I think. Or was. I certainly resemble one biologically. Or so I am told by females of various species." He raised his arms, speech-like. "And I believe them!"
	His pupils were now glow-in-the-dark purple.
	I turned off the light to be sure. My fryfish was kicking in. Shaman's head was mutating into a fish's.
	"No," I yelled. "What you are is a fishhead!"
	We collapsed to the floor in laughter. After several minutes we regained our vocalizing ability, to a certain degree.
	Shaman covered his eyes from the violet mine were now producing. "You too are ... fishhead!"
	Another several minutes later, we regained our vocalizing abilities, to a lesser degree.
	I turned the light back on, nauseous from the four purple spotlights flashing on and off as we blinked.
	Shaman turned to me, gills flailing. "What do excuse me, did your ... do you realize you have stuck a blow against intergalactic symbiosis?"
	"Yes," I replied. "And I don't care. I like crossword puzzles, but not on my...R
	"Penis." Shaman's eyes gleamed even in the bright kitchen light. Despite the colorful organs and unsightly intestines I would have to try a fryfish raw. If I ever had the chance. Shaman had consumed the last one we had and supposedly they were extinct.
	"My thought," Shaman said. "It has escaped like a slimeslug's soul on potassium. Oh yes. Knowing Earthlings' love for their reproductive organs, since I am one and have one, I understand. Actually you could argue I really am just a reproductive organ, passing on my mitochondria free of my own will. Intergalactically, an option few or perhaps none of my forefathers had the option of doing....
	He pondered. "In fact, there is a high probability I have spewed my seed among more species than any man in history.
	He slid closer to the floor, a physical impossibility.
	"My symbiotic guest ... host, perhaps, while being true companions, seems retarded."
	"What do they say?" I asked.
	"Buy low, sell high."
	"Good advice, though."
	Shaman attempted to sit up but only melted further into the floor. I put my foot over the drain, a reaction I first thought silly, but which made more and more sense as Shaman liquefied.
	"How did you kill them?" Shaman asked. "Just curious."
	"By taking a bath," I said.
	"Hmmm. Never tried that.   What do ... did they say?"      
	"Nothing that made sense.  'Hadean. Wanted.'"
	Shaman solidified, then was on his feet staring down at me.
	"Hadean?"
	I stood, uncomfortable with a hominoid with purple laser-beam eyes dominating the conversation. I was two inches taller than Shaman, no midget in his own right. The height advantage helped relax me, as it always did.
	"Yes. Hadean. Do you know what it means? The word is not in any dictionary."
	"It hasn't been translated yet," Shaman said. "Hadean -- are you sure?"
	"As sure as any combination of letters an alien infection has tattooed on my tubeworm."
	"Tubeworm?" Shaman asked, blinking purple laser beams.
	"Oh, yes. Current Earth slang." He laughed. "Hadean!"
	"So what does it mean?"
	"Hadean is a planet -- a planet beyond the known universe. The Jungonese say it is where the Supreme Being resides..."
	Before he could finish several Earthling females dragged him off. Shaman did not complain, knowing the point when it was useless to argue with hormones. Whether they be his or someone else's.

CHAPTER 16

	The party continued. All Earther teachers were there -- except Shaman, last seen heading to the spaceport with the remnants of a colorful fryfish organ stuck to his left incisor. Most identified it as a stomach, possibly a gall bladder.
	Such speculation was pure guesswork since nobody had ever analyzed the internal organs of a Mongkut fryfish.
	Somewhere during the height of the party it occupied the entire building. The other residents at first accepted it, willing to share their living rooms in trade for impromptu Earther lessons, but grew tired from the lack of sleep and the increasing inability of the Earthlings to use Earther, let alone sign language.
	But eventually the party worn down; as time progressed gravity took its toll. Like always. In the beginning the party's inertia was strong enough to counter gravity's pull, even reject it totally. But in the later weeks the party began to collapse on itself. Soon it was constrained to only our dink, then just the living room. An analogy filled my brain, helped along by a diversity of interactive substances. Brain barrier cruisers, as we now called them. More slang to pass on to high-paying client.
	At the rate the party was collapsing it would become that parties of parties -- a black hole from which no one escapes.
	Alive, of course. Dead, who knows?
	The stellar collapse was averted by the legislative arm of the Peitouian government, of all things. It passed a bill declaring the party over. Not because of the building's Peitouian residents who demonstrated at the Capital, protesting the loss of their apartments -- votes meant nothing on a pseudodemocracy like Peitou. It was because Earther teaching on Peitou had ceased.
	Peitou's export-based economy was at stake. Its trade surplus grew daily. Earther was the essential lubricant and without teachers and translators the gears of intergalactic trade were grinding to a halt.
	Things moved fast on Peitou, I had read when on Earth. But there was no way to explain how fast. Just a few decades ago it was a backwater orb where you would be lucky to find toilet paper....
	That's a bad example that needs rephrasing. You still could not find toilet paper in public restrooms -- in fact, that was why I did not considered Peitou an industrialized planet. It's a simple rule of mine, which I judge alien civilizations by: an advanced one can keep restrooms stocked with toilet paper.
	It's just not that hard.
	Howabout: Just a decade ago you could not buy toilet paper if you had wanted to.
	It was not until I had some familiarity with Peitouian culture did I realize it was changing daily, exponentially diversifying towards that universal goal: progress. A month ago, the government could not have enforced a law ending the party. But the infrastructure was solidifying; a thin veneer of civilization coated the planet. Troops arrived at the party and threatened everybody with deportation if they did not sober up and go back to work. All knew it was a hollow threat but welcomed the excuse to save face, go home, and sleep for a week.
	Going back to work, I noticed changes. There were more billboards in Earther. Consumer electronics filled the stores; Earth Today ran an article on Peitou's domination of Earth's holostereo market. More Peitouians spoke Earther on the street; language busking was less profitable. It was if Peitouians were grasping the language despite the fact a few months ago they couldn't read the bus numbers. Worse, the legislature was considering licensing Earther teachers.
	The rumor alone drove enough teachers from the planet that the idea was withdrawn. But I suspected the law would soon pass.
	Peitou was quickly evolving into a finely tuned Earther-speaking-profit-making-world, its only purpose to produce and export. Already cries were heard from Earth of unfair trade practices and illegal product dumping. I could see the change; the entire planet had a focus, a purpose. The population was beginning to think as one, all bent on achieving what they thought was the universe's number one goal: wealth.
	Maybe it is. I'11 ask the Supreme Being if I ever see Him.
	Peitou had adopted capitalism as a lifequest.
	Previously unknown in the Brim system until contact with Earth, capitalism had become the chosen religion. Brimmers did not see it as an economic system characterized by the private or corporate ownership of goods, but as a service and a homage to a God. A living and breathing God, metaphysically, one that was very visible and truly omnipresent. One for which worship and strict adherence to religious dogma worked, in a day-to-day sense.
	Who paid in cash. Who could blame the Peitouians?
	The religion's influence was bad on Zippon, but worse on Peitou. It was an easy and profitable dogma. It did not comment much on the afterlife but who cared if you were having fun now?
	And if Peitouians ended up dominating intergalactic trade it was Earth's fault, rushing in before the planet could be properly studied. The initial Earthlings saw a backwards, stagnant planet and assumed the Peitouians were primitive. They were, but once capitalism replaced their native religion of cyclical rebirth in which nothing is worth doing because you will just have to do again in the next life, there was a focus, and ends with a purpose. The Peitouians were ready for something to do and the message had come from the sky:
	Make money.
	They didn't concern themselves what they would do with it. Perhaps later. The Supreme Being help us when Peitouians discover leisure -- and travel. I shutter at the thought.
	The first galactic anthropologists to visit Peitou had noted that the natives seemed extremely slow to learn, only later to reach a point where a threshold was overcome after which everything came easy.
	Those research articles hadn't made it passed obscure journals; the warnings were ignored -- worse, not even read. Very little money in anthropology, you know.
	The Peitouians had crossed the threshold.
	The times were a-changing. Hourly. It was engraved in the smog. Having no other examples to chose from they not only adopted capitalism but all the features from Earth that appeared necessary to support it, whether they did or not -the Peitouians had no way of knowing. How could they? It was just a massive system of prepackaged culture and behavior.  Laws. Internal Security. Stoplights. Driver’s licenses.  Traffic tickets.
	Soon they would enforce even those laws that are the apex of society -- and the first sign of its decline: tax laws. Next comes regulation of sexual acts with willing miners and non-conscious species. Then the government decides it could regulate what you do with your own body.
	Abortion. Sin taxes. Health warnings on deathsticks and intox. Drug laws. Drunk driving becomes illegal.
	The Supreme Being help us. They were turning the place into Earth.
	I couldn't complain. No high-paid expatriate bum that called himself a teacher because he spoke Earther could. It was our fault: the language mercenaries. We were to blame, emissaries who peddled the knowledge of how to conquer Earth. We didn't plant the seed but supplied the fertilizer- We laughed at the high pay, assuming we were getting paid to feed the locals shit -- money for words. But the Peitouians used our shit productively.
	May bon fa. Loosely translated from an ancient, extinct Earther lingo, it meant "There is nothing I can do, there is no solution, so don't ask me for one because I will shrug and look skyward."
	I felt so guilty I asked for a raise. And got it.
	As I looked skyward.

CHAPTER 17

	The expatriates began leaving Peitou in droves. For many it was not the first time a planet had become too developed to cope with: they had migrated from Zippon after its drug regulations were enforced.
	Of course, they had first migrated from Earth. The most regulated planet in the cosmos, next to Wee Wee, a place where you couldn't piss without permission. But most teachers had been gone so long that Earth was only a sputtering neuron.
	That was the sign, they said: when a planet regulated drugs. There might be laws on the books but when they were enforced it was over. If development reached the point where a government was concerned about an individual's abuse of their own bodies it was migration time.
	There were other planets to choose from in the Brim system; Mongkut, where capitalism was beginning to take hold. Sadly, it was fast becoming not the pleasure planet but the pleasure-for-profit planet. The natives' thought patterns were changing from simple enjoyment of existence to an overwhelming desire for consumer products. Of course, from a language mercenary point of view it also meant increased demand for Earther teachers.
	Ying and yang. May bon fa.
	The adventurous chose Hukipine, a fun but dangerous planet always at war with itself. It was unstable but exciting. Pay was low not from demand -- like for all planets Earther was essential to enter the galactic economic system -- but from a poor economy. Hukipine was a planet of freedom; the ruling party's concern was staying in power. It had few resources to waste on individuals who wanted to destroy themselves. It was a popular choice for language mercenaries.
	I was considering Hukipine. I had enough credits to hire a security force if necessary. Actually, there were laws on the book forbidding everything -- even prostitution, if you can believe it.  But few were enforced, like on Peitou when I arrived.    Laws that were enforced revolved around attempting to kill the President. Anything else was OK.
	Some chose Jungo. The planet was attempting to industrialize despite its overwhelming population. Pay was also poor, but the swarms of cognizant beings eliminated any serious enforcement at ground level. It was also safe for Earthers and some were attracted to its religion.
	There were other choices: Wee Wee, high paying but extremely restricted -- even bhang possession was the death penalty. Sarkar, dirt poor. There was no hope of employment beyond subsistence wager but the mountains were tall and native attitudes good -- for now. The average teacher had enough credits to live like a king, anyway, if he didn't mind taking a dump outside.
	I chose a planet in another galaxy.
	I already knew the first thing I would do when I got there: go to Central Park and look at the Tree. If it still survived.
	Earth. I decided to head home. I didn't think I would stay long, having permanently activated my adventure gene. I could never again settle for a routine existence. But I was homesick.
	I had another excuse: I wanted to move my harvestclones to Zippon. The ache in my liver from the fungus pops worried me. I decided to grind through another month of teaching my clients how to dominate intergalactic trade. That was about all I would last anyway. I was already bluffing, since my clients had progressed beyond my knowledge in many subjects. I had resorted to teaching the two most difficult parts of Earther for Peitouians: slang and the use of the word fuck.
	They could not grasp fuck's versatility, a verb and a noun, able to be used anywhere in a sentence.  The fact it had more meanings than The Bible contributed.      And that the meanings varied with inflection or from the words around it.
	Fuck! Fuck me! Please fuck me. Fuck you! You're fucked! I'm fucked up. Don't fuck with me! Fucking right, motherfucker. A good fuck. Fucking fantastic. What the fuck? Fuck, yes.
	Slang was also difficult since it evolved quickly and made little sense. But they were grasping even it; a month was stretching it.
	How does that song go?
	"I don't know the words to this song. So I just make them up as I go along...."
	But who knows? How does slang start anyway? Maybe my clients would spread mine far and wide.
	I looked out at the class. "Pretend you are mad at somebody. Very mad. Your mother has just been insulted. How would you respond, using the term 'fuck'?"
	A female in the back raised her arm.
	"You should be fucked."
	"No, no," I said. Another student raised her hand and stood.
	"Be quiet or I will fuck you."
	"No," I said. "You are using fuck sexually, not as an insult. Anyone else want to try?"
	A Peitouian named Golden raised his hand.  Six months ago he couldn't get past "Hello, how are you?"  I pointed and he stood. He was so short and fat it appeared a forward motion. I knew he lived, breathed, and ate Earther culture. It showed. Maybe that was how we would win the invisible war -- with saturated fat and cholesterol.
	"Shut the fuck up, motherfucker!" Golden screamed.
	"Correct," I said. "Let's switch to slang. Monkey sperm! You are all monkey sperm! Who can tell me what that means?"
	"I believe it an insult," Golden said. "Monkeys were a primitive form of primates, of which humans share an evolutionary path. Sperm is the male reproductive fluid of Earth lifeforms. I think you are calling us unproduced offspring of an inferior but similar race, a derogatory..." Sounded good to me. I added the term to my vocabulary.
	"You are correct, Golden." I couldn't pronounce his real name, not having enough phlem to do so. And I had given up learning Peitouian as obviously all the natives would speak Earther soon. Peitouian would fade away like the thousands of Earth languages that didn't produce enough wealth, perhaps contributing a word or two before they were regulated to the realm of linguistic hobbyists.
	I thought for moment. "Pissant...."
	"You've taught us that," the class yawned in unison.  "Oh. Of course -- I was testing you. Butt slime...."

CHAPTER 18

	And so it went. The month passed like fungus pop through my liver: it hurt. The night of my last class my clients demanded to take me to dinner. Dredging up what I knew of the local cuisine, I resisted. But they would not give up. I must go, they said. It was tradition. I would disgrace them if I did not. I suggested an Earthling restaurant but they said it must be Peitouian.
	I gave in. I might return in need of income, despite the billion credits on my EarthEX card. Who knew? I was wealthy but had experienced enough of the universe to know not to assume what was reality today would be tomorrow. Past performance was no guarantee of future results. If I needed a job when I returned I would need clients. And I could pick up some new slang on Earth; knowing its evolutionary pace it would have changed dramatically since I left.
	So I agreed to the dinner despite the fact I had barely sampled Peitouian food, relying instead on Earther fastfood. I knew Peitouians consumed everything that was digestible. They had already wiped out many species of local fauna in their search for delicacies and projections showed they would eventually eat every animal on the planet, except domesticated ones raised for mass consumption. And when they ate an animal, they ate an animal. Born of a famine culture, they ate the meat, the bones, the blood, the organs. It was all fungus of course, but I retained my Earthling dietary prejudices. Especially against organs.
	We went to a very expensive restaurant. I assumed my clients would be paying but left my EarthEX card home just in case. We sat at a table reserved for Earthlings, twice the height of other ones. My clients sat in the gigantic chairs, legs dangling high above the floor, using pillows so they could reach the table.
	Golden filled our glasses with deerpiss. I suspected his true purpose was to watch me gag, to humiliate the teacher. He had no way of knowing I was well versed in that medium. I raised my glass and gave the traditional toast challenging all to empty their glasses.
	"Hoot uhggpheu," I said, downing the liquid.
	My clients followed.
	Golden put his glass down. "I didn't know you spoke Peitouian," he said. "You speak very well."  He jumped off his chair and waddled to me.  "I am honored." He bowed, an easy task when you are a meter tall.
	I decided he was serious. He waddled to his chair and, with some effort, climbed back up.
	Each client issued their "hoot uhggpheus" and the tube of deerpiss emptied quickly. Golden ordered another. Thank the Supreme Being, because the food was beginning to arrive; I thought the odds of holding it down were better if I had a good prime.
	Waiter after waiter brought plates and pots of various size, all filled with grayish matter I assumed was food. A large turntable occupied the center of the table, so everybody could reach what they wanted with a spin. The head waiter brought what I guessed was the piece de resistance, placing a large, covered, metallic soupbowl in front of Golden.
	Golden lifted the lid off. I peered inside. A soggy reptilian head floated in a thick broth, its cranium previously cut through, now held together by string. I turned my head, pretending to look out the window, as Golden pulled the string out and the creature's brain saw light for the first (and last) time.
	"A delicacy," he said. "Bing Floom brain. For honored teacher." He dipped his spoon into the now aquatic brain, ceremoniously handing it to me. I called his bluff and smiled as I swallowed.
	Only my years of holding back inter that wanted to come up at inopportune times, like during sex, kept the smile on my face and the putrid morsel in my stomach.
	"It is delicious," I lied. "Bing Floom must be a popular dish. And very expensive."
	Golden laughed. The others at the table looked at him. "Excuse me, honored teacher. I must translate for you." He spat off in Peitouian. Everybody laughed. Golden looked at me. "Yes, very expensive," Golden said. "But not so popular anymore." He translated what he had said and the table exploded in laughter.
	I smiled politely. Golden had learned to read Earthling facial emotions a month ago and saw my confusion. "Why do you laugh?" I asked.
	"Yes," Golden said. "It is very, very expensive. But no longer popular." He was laughing so hard I scooted my chair back to avoid the mucus.
	"Why is it funny?" I repeated.
	He could barely get the words out, tears streaming from his eyes. "Because it is the last Bing Floom on the planet!"

                     
CHAPTER 19

	I survived with minimal complications, awakening the next day with only a hangover. The deerpiss must have killed whatever alien parasites were lurking in that final Bing Floom's brain. If there were any, good luck: no more Bing Flooms to leach off.
	I took a hovertaxi to the spaceport. Hovertaxis were a guaranteed adrenaline hit. There was nothing wrong with a natural prime, as long as you lived to tell the story. Taxis flew, with a visibility of two meters, at incredible speed through amazingly packed airways. How collisions were avoided was beyond comprehension. Likely they weren't. Taxi drivers had short lifespans on Peitou.
	But my driver looked a veteran, face withered and teeth blue from bugnut. Bugnut was a locally grown seed that had two properties when chewed: it was a potent stimulate and it excreted a thick blue liquid that stained teeth with repeated use. It was popular with lower strata of society; a poor man's loid with dental disadvantages.
	Like most cabbies, on Earth or Peitou, mine spoke no Earther. He flashed a blue smile as I climbed in, juice coagulating on his chin. The stimulate shone in his pupils; I was in for a ride. The adrenal glands prepared, and I searched for the safety belt unsuccessfully. Needing some security I bummed a deathstick. Despite my dismal language abilities there were two survival tools I could secure on any planet. Important ones: a beer and a deathstick.
	The trip to the spaceport was short. I saw why my cabby was a veteran, still alive. He jinked and janked like an Olympic hovercar slalom gold medalist. Death was avoided at every turn. I almost renounced my atheism but couldn't remember if I was really agnostic.
	I left a large tip; my cabby drooled blue his thanks. I was early but spent my time at the gate instead of the bar. Space travel was no longer a novelty. I had opted for first-class unconsciousness for the trip. Expensive but worth it. My only worry was my layover in Zippon; hopefully they would wheel me to the correct connecting flight.
	Stories abounded of Earthlings flying unconscious, to be awaked on some nuclear dump planet in a solar system barely charted. As the flight attendant strapped the inhaling mask over my mouth, the pilot spoke on the intercom.
	"I'm Toot Hemmp, your pilot on this short flight to Zippon, with connecting flights to Earth, Jungo..."
	I was sure he was the same pilot that had brought me to Peitou. His Earther skills were approaching mine.
	I awoke on Earth; in customs. My attendant smiled when she saw me open my eyes and waddled away. Dizzily I stood. I had no checked luggage, besides myself. I grabbed my carry-on bags and made my way to the custom attendant. Despite my appearance; my hair had quickly grown back, as did a beard, he waved me through without a glance. Once again I could have smuggled billions worth of drugs. I stumbled to the spaceport lounge to overcome my confusion. The sleep drug made me groggy but the strangeness of my home planet contributed.
	Earthlings were everywhere; their height astounded me. And ganqliness -- walking sticks! I felt the alien, even though I was taller than most. Many were using slang terms I had never heard. And the smell! I had forgotten that Earthlings dosed themselves with sweetened chemicals to mask their scent. It was nauseating.
	I collapsed in a booth and looked out the window. I could see perhaps a half mile, an incredible distance compared to Peitou. The waitress approached, and I ordered a barley pop and a porterhouse steak -- range beef no less, despite the cost. The waitress quickly returned with my beer and I gave her my EarthEx to run a tab. I planned to stay awhile while my neural routes reestablished themselves.
	I knew the world had fundamentally changed when Earth beer tasted vile. Somebody else said it first, but they were right: there was no going home.

CHAPTER 20

	My plan: sit until a sufficient prime had developed to cope with this strange world where mammalian stick figures ruled. The steak tasted good; I knew it would after eating hamburgers since Supreme Being knows when -- how long had I been gone? I couldn't remember.
	I gave the waitress a large tip since she gave me her phone number. I suspected with my fifth beer -- barley pop on Earth -- she questioned my finances and ran a credit check. Spaceport food was expensive; but of course not like on Peitou. The waitress had been treating me like spaceslime, no surprise since I resembled some. But after that fifth beer I was the funniest, most exciting guy in the world. I didn't know how rich I was. You didn't keep track of those things on Peitou. One billion? Two?
	Enough for serious partying on Peitou. On Earth, enough for ... well, almost anything. Certainly enough for a waitress's phone number. And I hadn't been with a fem Earthling for some time. I stuffed her number in my pocket. I had few friends on the planet and interspecies copulation had a nice ring.
	What to do?   For the first time I wondered about my contract spouse.  I had never sent any form of communication from Peitou, not even a holocard. My sixth sense said to leave that one alone. I checked my cyberwatch, reset for Earth. A memory surfaced from deep in my brain, likely from the reptilian portion as it gave me an inexplicable erection. Yes, best to remain incognito. My wedding contract had a week left. And reading the visible manifestation of my subconscious, I would probably sacrifice all for a fluid squirt.
	The last thing I needed was my contract spouse finding out I had Supreme Being how many credits and filing for half. It was pretty stupid to return before the wedding contract was dissolved. Then again, I've always thought human intelligence was overrated. Especially mine.
	I knew her haunts; I could avoid her. I decided not to alter my slime-like appearance just in case; I could plead poverty and she would believe me. Besides, I was proud of my ponytail and beard. Let those follicles be free.
	Another neuron fired: if I was arrested -- not that I was planning to be -- internal security would run a hair analysis, standard procedure during arrests on Earth. Hair was a chemical dump, admissible evidence for substance abuse. No matter if the drugs had been consumed on Earth. You couldn't have an illegal drug in your system, and the courts held that your hair was part of your system. And it didn't matter if the drugs were consumed months ago in the distance reaches of the universe.
	Which they had been, of course.
	Nails were also chemical dumps, but the courts had ruled that pulling -- or even clipping finger or toenails was an invasion of privacy, a violation of constitutional rights. The court said that since hair fell out daily and nails could theoretically grow forever, clipping or pulling them was a personal affair.
	What a challenge I would be! Loids never thought of. Pharms made from Supreme Being knows what -- fungus, probably. Designers. And fryfish.
	I smiled at the waitress, who got cuter by the beer. They still tasted foul but didn't hurt my liver. Harvestclones:  that was my purpose. The homesickness was already gone:   remembering Earth's restrictiveness cured it.
	I weighed options. I could cut my hair and look human. The worst that could happen if I ran into my contact spouse -- and she found out I was rich -- was she would take half. I could make that back on Peitou. If I didn't cut my hair, I might I get arrested; not impossible since I looked a radical spiv and had forgotten many formal rules of Earth. Not to mention informal ones.
	On Peitou you did what you wanted when you wanted, with no concern about anyone or anything. Or used to. Who knew what changes had occurred since I left?
	Not primed, I probably could keep track of what was legal behavior. Primed was another matter. And I assumed a prime would be norm.   I was getting there now.
	I had to shed my locks and, for that matter, all body hair.  Not just once, either -- continually, since the hairs not yet formed had enough chemicals to do me in. Accidentally running into my contract spouse and losing half of my fortune was better than a sentence in a nuke plant or "salvage mine" -- the immense projects in ancient landfills which excavated rare commodities.
	Was I paranoid? Probably. I already had the suspicion I was being watched. Then again, better paranoid than finding out you should have been.
	A barbershop was out; collecting hair samples was standard procedure. Barbers earned a commission if