by E. M. Foner
“Definitely not,” the Vergallian girl told her. “The ambassador will want credit, and if Jonah is his recommendation, the director will be relieved not to have to make the decision himself.” She gently removed Kelly’s hands from the push-bar of the catering cart and took over. “You talk to the Fillinduck, I’ll put out the food.”
“Good luck,” Donna added.
Kelly followed her co-op student into the conference room while trying to come up with a greeting for the Fillinduck ambassador who had been dodging her for almost three decades. When she came face-to-face with the colorfully feathered alien, she blurted out, “Why have you been avoiding me, Ambassador Tverk?”
“I brought pickles,” the ambassador replied as if he hadn’t heard her question. “There’s a trio in our preserved foods market who sell them by the barrel. I’m not sure if mixing cider vinegar with saltwater and dropping in various vegetables to soak really counts as cooking, but I wanted to keep it simple.”
“Uh, thank you,” Kelly said, feeling that it would be rude to repeat her original question. “Please make yourself at home.”
“I see the Frunge brought blood pudding as usual,” Tverk replied. “I think I’ll have a bowl.”
“Ambassador,” Srythlan said, shuffling across the conference room. “I baked pretzels. I hope they aren’t too hard.”
“I’ve never seen such large salt crystals.” Kelly bent forward to peer at the giant white knobs on the blackened dough sticks the Verlock presented in a large glass bowl. “Is it natural sea salt?”
“I buy the Union Station brand, which as you know, is associated with the Stryx recycling system. I believe they have a method of growing sodium chloride crystals in the wastewater treatment—”
“I’ll just put them on the table for you,” the EarthCent ambassador interrupted her slow-spoken alien friend before he could ruin her appetite. While placing the bowl on the buffet, she found herself next to the Gem ambassador, who was just taking the wrapping off a tray of chocolates. “Are those from Chocolate Gem’s store?” Kelly asked, her mouth watering.
“I feel a little guilty showing up to a potluck with a retail product, but if I had prepared something myself, everybody would assume I was the caterer,” the clone said. “Besides, there’s nothing better than chocolate.”
“I concur wholeheartedly. Did Donna tell me that you had asked for a private meeting later today?”
“Yes, though it’s really quite simple. My sisters would like to advertise catering services in the Stryx stations edition of the All Species Cookbook. I’m told that a large number of cookbook buyers never cook for themselves.”
“Hey,” Bork said, looking up from the vegetable platter the Grenouthian ambassador had brought. “Don’t agree to anything exclusive until you hear my offer, Ambassador McAllister. I’m authorized to negotiate ad space for Drazen Foods.”
“We’re in the process of seeding our latest ag world with Earth tubers,” the Dollnick ambassador volunteered. He deposited a mouthwatering basket of French fries on the table while reaching with one of his upper arms for a chocolate. “Get them while they’re hot.”
“Tiny salt crystals,” Srythlan observed. “I am also authorized to purchase ad space.”
“For what?” Kelly blurted out.
“The Verlock Molecular Gastronomy Academy. They’re dedicated to spreading the use of statistics and probability in cooking. The math is quite challenging.”
“Please use the toothpicks,” the Chert ambassador declared, as he materialized out of nowhere and set an enormous bowl of colorful fruit balls on the table. “What am I missing?”
“We were just negotiating with Ambassador McAllister for advertising space in the All Species Cookbook,” Bork told him. “The Humans aren’t going to use it to insult their friends.”
“Unlike some aliens we know,” Ortha said, pushing into the crowd around the buffet and setting a few bottles on the table. “The two purple ones are plum wine and the clear one is plum brandy, highly distilled. Nobody ever remembers to bring drinks to these things.”
“Why doesn’t everybody make up a plate and take a seat,” Aabina’s clear voice rang out, followed by, “Hi, Mom. I didn’t mean to yell in your ear like that.”
“I should have had more sense than to walk in front of you while you’re working,” the Vergallian ambassador replied. “Could you put this on the buffet for me?”
“Sure. Is that Royal Dressing?” the co-op student asked, her eyes going wide.
“I got up early and worked on it all day with our chef’s help. I just hope somebody brought salad.”
“A giant bowlful, Ambassador Aainda,” Kelly said. “Why don’t we all take Aabina’s advice and fix ourselves a bite so we can sit down and eat in comfort?”
The ambassadors didn’t need to be asked twice, and with less than the usual amount of snatching and grabbing, everybody found something that suited them and took their species-appropriate chairs at the conference table. Kelly waited until Srythlan served himself before settling on a salad with a liberal dash of Royal Dressing and a side plate of chocolates. Before turning away from the buffet, she couldn’t resist trying one of Crute’s French fries. It was so good that her knees almost buckled.
“Great salt,” the Fillinduck ambassador commented to Srythlan after sampling one of the Verlock’s pretzels. “The dough part is a bit overcooked.”
The Grenouthian ambassador, who must have inhaled the food from his first trip to the buffet, rose from his place with the empty plate as if he were about to go for seconds. Instead, he cleared his throat to make an announcement, “I am accepting tenders of pre-production ad buys for our new All Species Cookbook show.”
“You licensed the broadcast rights?” Bork asked Kelly.
“We’re in discussions,” she replied diplomatically, and addressed herself to the Grenouthian. “Don’t you think it’s a bit premature to be selling ad time, Ambassador?”
“Pre-production ad time,” the giant bunny clarified. “Once our contract with you is signed, the price goes up.”
“Put us down for one spot per show for the first season,” Srythlan said. “The academy will be in touch.”
“Are you selling ads for the show and the cookbook separately or can we get a package deal?” Ambassador Crute inquired. “I imagine a coordinated campaign would be the most effective.”
“I’ll have to speak to our business backers,” Kelly said. “My involvement in all of this was really limited to signing the bid package for EarthCent. Nobody said anything about the previous editions of the cookbook having advertising so it never came up.”
“Would you have paid to advertise in a language that nobody could read?” Ortha asked. “I was explaining your plans for the cookbook to my home office earlier today, and I discovered that we don’t even have a term to describe what you’re attempting.”
“Cookbook diplomacy?” Kelly suggested with a smile.
The ambassadors all froze, and Aabina hastened to say, “She meant it literally, using both words in the plain sense.”
“What did everybody think I said?”
“You know how translation implants have trouble with first-time usages,” the co-op student explained. “When I’m in meetings, I monitor a real-time transcript of the conversation on my heads-up display to check for translation glitches. ‘Cookbook diplomacy’ translates into an idiom in most of the tunnel network languages that’s equivalent to gunboat diplomacy.”
“Oh, sorry everybody,” Kelly apologized. “You know that we’re in no position to go around making threats. I have to say this dressing is the best I’ve ever tasted, Ambassador Aainda.”
“And this wine is excellent, Ortha,” Czeros complimented the Horten ambassador. “Now, does anybody have any information to share about the Alts?”
“Our Alts?” Kelly asked.
“Their purchases have singlehandedly restored our bicycle manufacturing industry to a profit,” the Frunge ambassador said.
“Earlier today I met with one of our businessmen who just returned from the Alt homeworld, but if nobody else is interested…”
“A diabolical people,” the Grenouthian ambassador complained. “Our intelligence service stopped sending agents to Alt because they come back ruined for work. The Alts treat spies like honored guests and bend over backward to cooperate.”
“We just send them a list of questions every few cycles,” Crute said. “The Alts are incredibly cooperative.”
“Good students,” the Verlock ambassador remarked. “They already outnumber Humans on our academy worlds.”
“I haven’t heard from Methan in over a year,” Kelly said. “They still haven’t reached a consensus about joining the tunnel network and I didn’t want to nag.”
“I received a message from his son Antha just the other day,” Bork informed the others. “He was contacting me in accordance with the terms of the treaty we concluded during their visit.”
“I remember reading an article about that in the Galactic Free Press,” Aainda said. “He promised to ask you first if he heard of a production on Alt that required an actor with a tentacle.”
“It ties in with my information,” Czeros said. “But if nobody has any substantial additions, I’m going to have to ask you all to owe me one.”
“What, are we back in nursery school?” Ortha groaned. “Fine, I owe you one.”
The Frunge ambassador waited patiently for the others to assent to his condition, and then he spilled the beans.
“The Alts will be making an announcement about the Stryx invitation to join the tunnel network in the near future,” Czeros reported. “Bork, I’m sure that your young friend contacted you because the Alts are planning an epic documentary about their first contact with alien species, an event which most of us attended. How many historical reenactors can boast about being hired to portray themselves?”
“Where are you going?” Kelly asked the Grenouthian ambassador, who headed for the exit.
“I just remembered somewhere I have to be,” the bunny flung over his shoulder. “I’ll tell the network team to contact your people about managing ad sales for the show and the cookbook. The sooner we work this out the better.”
“You’re not all running off, are you?” Kelly was unable to keep the disappointment out of her voice as more chairs began scraping back and the ambassadors rose to their feet. “Aabina and I have a whole list of questions about the cookbook.”
“I’m returning for seconds,” Bork told her, displaying his empty plate. “You didn’t think I was going anywhere with all of that food left?”
The EarthCent ambassador relaxed when she realized that none of her guests were following the Grenouthian. She fought off the temptation to revisit the buffet, telling herself that the French fries would be cold by now, and concentrated on the subtle flavors of Aainda’s Royal Dressing as she finished her salad. When the Drazen ambassador returned with a heavily laden plate, she couldn’t resist helping herself to just one of his fries.
“Addictive, aren’t they,” Crute commented from his seat. “Even more so than the fried snacks we make from Tan Tubers. Something to do with the starch content, I suspect.”
“I have trouble choosing,” the Fillinduck ambassador said, holding up a French fry in one hand and one of the Verlock’s pretzels in the other. “I wouldn’t be offended to have either of these listed as my contribution to the All Species Cookbook.”
“What did you bring?” Aainda asked him.
“The pickles. They’re also high in sodium chloride, but these,” Tverk continued, shaking the fry and the pretzel for emphasis, “these would likely be banned in Fillinduck space as unlicensed salt delivery systems.”
“Does your species have a problem with salt?” Kelly asked, hoping she wouldn’t accidentally offend the ambassador and be subjected to another three decades of the silent treatment.
“Yes, we can’t get enough of it,” the Fillinduck replied with a chirpy laugh. “A single one of those pickles has one hundred percent of our recommended daily consumption, which is about ten percent of what we all crave. Will you be including dietary recommendations in the cookbook?”
“EarthCent Intelligence looked into that and concluded it was too risky,” Aabina said. “While nobody has fought a civil war over daily recommended values of nutrients, there have been a couple of close calls. With the exception of the Verlocks, none of the tunnel network species have come up with a universally accepted set of values.”
“Have you ever met a skinny Verlock?” Srythlan asked when all of the ambassadors turned to look at him. “Bork, if you’re getting up again, please bring me a couple of those pickles.”
Twelve
“Name?” Marilla asked Samuel, her finger poised above her tab.
“Come on, you can fill that in without asking,” the EarthCent ambassador’s son replied.
“I did the programming for the rental form myself and I wanted to show you how it works,” the Horten girl said.
“Sorry, I guess I’m kind of nervous. Samuel McAllister.”
“I can assure you that all of our rental craft are in top-notch condition.”
“It’s not that. I’ve never taken Vivian anywhere before.”
“I see. Purpose of your trip?”
“Vacation.”
“And where will you be going?”
“Corner Station.”
Marilla stopped typing and looked up from the tab. “Really?”
“I’ve always wanted to see it,” Samuel mumbled, realizing just how lame his explanation sounded.
“Are you going on some kind of secret diplomatic mission?”
“Is that really on the form?”
“I just thought I’d ask since you said you’re taking Vivian. I’d think that could be awkward with you working for the Vergallians and her working for the Drazens. Ah,” Marilla said, “that’s why you’re nervous.”
“Here she comes, don’t mention anything to her.”
“Hi, Marilla,” Vivian greeted the Horten girl, with whom she had become much more friendly since getting engaged. “Did you pick out a nice ship for us? Sorry in advance if I get sick.”
“Dorothy stopped by earlier and left this for you,” Marilla said, presenting Vivian with a piece of wax paper that had two peel-off patches stuck to it. “She said to start with an eighth and never to go above half in eight hours. It’s the Farling cure for Zero-G sickness in Humans, but it has some side effects.”
“Thanks. Do you have any scissors?”
Marilla pulled open the sole drawer in the rental kiosk and handed Vivian the scissors. “Don’t forget to bring them back.”
“I was going to cut it up now.”
“And have all of those tiny scraps to keep track of? It’s better to just cut a bit off if you need it.”
“So, are we all set?” Samuel asked.
“I need your programmable cred.”
“I thought you’d give us a bill when we got back.”
“Funny, I never heard that one before,” Marilla said, drumming her fingers on the Stryx mini-register.
“I have my programmable cred from the Vergallian embassy, but I don’t want to use that, since it’s a vacation and everything,” Samuel concluded awkwardly. “Let me find Dad and borrow his.”
“You can pay me back later,” Vivian said, handing her programmable cred over to Marilla.
“Are you sure you want to use this one?” the Horten girl asked after inserting it in the register. “It comes up with a Drazen menu.”
“Oops, I gave you my expense account cred.”
The girls swapped coins and Marilla inserted Vivian’s personal programmable cred in the register. “So, the basic rental is seventy-nine creds a day. How long will you be gone?”
“Just overnight,” Samuel said.
“You realize that if you don’t return the ship within twenty-four hours I’ll have to charge you for two days,” Marilla told them.
“We’ll be back. Is there anything else?”
“All rentals come with basic insurance in the daily fee, but we offer a Thark umbrella policy for just ten creds a day.”
“No thank you.”
“Not so fast,” Vivian said. “What do we get for the ten creds?”
“It can’t be much or they’d charge more,” Samuel pointed out.
“Says the boy who was rescued from hijackers thanks to a Thark insurance policy,” Vivian reminded him.
“We don’t have a printed booklet because it would be too long, but I can shoot a copy to your implant if you want to skim it on your heads-up display,” Marilla said apologetically. “It’s basically travel insurance for if something goes wrong and the vendor you’re dealing with won’t pay to make it right, but most people get it for the ransom coverage.”
“For ten creds the Tharks will pay a ransom to get us back from the pirates?”
“Ten creds a day.”
“It’s easy money for the Tharks,” Samuel said. “They never have to pay a claim because they can get one of their old battleships out of stasis and go threaten the pirates with a lot more trouble than whatever the ransom is worth.”
“We’ll take it,” Vivian said.
“Excellent. I get a commission on insurance sales,” Marilla told them, making a notation on her tab. “Snack food and Zero-G safe drinks are available at the chandlery, and that takes care of everything except for the walk-through.”
“I think I can manage to turn on a Stryx controller and tell it where we’re going,” Samuel said.
“It’s not an instructional walk-through for first time pilots—that would cost extra. You need to inspect the ship in my presence and note any damage so you don’t get charged for it when you return.”
“Wait a second,” Vivian said. “I just bought umbrella insurance on top of the basic coverage that’s included in the rental. It’s not like we’re planning on damaging the ship, but why should it matter to us if we do?”