by Rich Horton
"Are they inappropriate?” he asked anxiously.
She looked around at all the American summer slobbery—men in baggy T-shirts and sandals, women bursting out of their tank tops. “No,” she said. “You'll fit right in. It's just that, for a man in your position.... “She grabbed him by the hand and dragged him into the drugstore, making for the magazine rack. She found an issue of GQ and thrust it into his hands. “Study that,” she said. “It will show you what the elite class of men wear.” Perusing several other magazines, she found some examples of a more khakified, Cape Cod look. “This is more informal, but still tasteful. Good for occasions like this, without losing face."
He was studying the pictures with a grave and studious manner. “Thank you, Susan. This is helpful.” With a pang, she wished Tom would take any of her sartorial advice so to heart.
They were heading for the counter to buy the magazines when he stopped, riveted by the sight of the shelves. “What are these products for?"
"Grooming, personal care,” Susan said. “These are for cleaning teeth. We do it twice a day, to prevent our breath smelling bad and our teeth going yellow. These are for shaving off unwanted hair. Men shave their faces every day, or it grows in."
"You mean all men have facial hair?” Captain Groton said, a little horrified.
"Yes. The ones who don't want beards just shave it off."
"What about these?” he said, gesturing to the deodorants.
"We spread it under our arms every day, to prevent unpleasant odors."
Faintly he said, “You live at war with your bodies."
She laughed. “It does seem that way, doesn't it?” She looked down the aisle at the shampoos, mouthwashes, acne creams, corn removers, soaps, and other products attesting to the ways in which even humans found their own bodies objectionable.
Beth Meyer was manning the counter, so Susan introduced her to Captain Groton. Unable to hide her hostility, Beth nevertheless said, “I hope you learn something about us."
"Your shop has already been very instructive, Mrs. Meyer,” the captain said courteously. “I never realized the ingenuity people devote to body care. I hope I may return some day."
"As long as we're open we won't turn away a customer,” Beth said.
Outside, things were gearing up for the parade, and it was clear that people were spontaneously going to use it to express their frustration. Some of the spectators were carrying protest signs, and along the sidewalk one local entrepreneur had set up a Spike the Spud concession stand offering people a chance to do sadistic things to baked potatoes for a few dollars. The most popular activity seemed to be blowing up the potatoes with firecrackers, as attested by the exploded potato guts covering the back of the plywood booth. A reporter from an out-of-town TV station was interviewing the proprietor about his thriving business. The word “Wattesoon” never passed anyone's lips, but no one missed the point.
Including Captain Groton. Susan saw him studying the scene, so she said quietly, “It's tasteless, but better they should work it out this way than in earnest."
"That is one interpretation,” he said a little tensely. She reminded herself that it wasn't her symbolic viscera plastering the booth walls.
His radio chose that moment to come to life. Susan hadn't even realized he was carrying it, hidden under his untucked shirt. He said, “Excuse me,” and spoke into it in his own language. Susan could not tell what was being said, but the captain's voice was calm and professional. When he finished, she said, “Do you have soldiers ready to move in?"
He studied her a moment, as if weighing whether to lie, then said, “It would have been foolish of us not to take precautions."
It occurred to her then that he was their advance reconnaissance man, taking advantage of her friendship to assess the need for force against her neighbors. At first she felt a prickle of outrage; it quickly morphed into relief that he had not sent someone more easily provoked.
"Hey, captain!” The man at the Spike the Spud stand had noticed them, and, emboldened by the TV camera, had decided to create a photogenic scene. “Care to launch a spud missile?” The people standing around laughed nervously, transfixed to see the Wattesoon's reaction. Susan was drawing breath to extricate him when he put a restraining hand on her arm.
"I fear you would think me homicidal,” he said in an easygoing tone.
Everyone saw then that he understood the message of sublimated violence, but chose to take it as a joke and not a provocation.
"No homicide involved, just potatoes,” said the boothkeeper. He was a tubby, unshaven man in a sloppy white T-shirt. His joking tone had a slightly aggressive edge. “Come on, I'll give you a shot for free."
Captain Groton hesitated as everyone watched intently to see what he would do. At last he gave in. “Very well,” he said, stepping up to the booth, “but I insist on paying. No preferential treatment."
The boothkeeper, an amateur comedian, made a show of selecting a long, thin potato that looked remarkably like his customer. He then offered a choice of weapons: sledge hammer, ax, firecracker, or other instruments of torture. “Why, the firecracker of course,” the captain said. “It is traditional today, is it not?"
"American as beer.” One segment of the crowd resented that the Wattesoons had interfered with their patriotic right to inebriation.
The boothkeeper handed him the potato and firecracker. “Here, shove it in. Right up its ass.” When the captain complied, the man set the potato in the back of the booth and said, “Say when."
When the captain gave the word, the man lit the fuse. They waited breathlessly; then the potato exploded, splattering the boothkeeper in the face. The onlookers hooted with laughter. Captain Groton extracted himself with an amiable wave, as if he had planned the outcome all along.
"You were a remarkably good sport about that,” Susan said to him as they walked away.
"I could have obliterated the tuber with my weapon,” he said, “but I thought it would violate the spirit of the occasion."
"You're packing a weapon?” Susan stared. Wattesoon weapons were notoriously horrific. He could have blown away the booth and everyone around it.
He looked at her without a shade of humor. “I have to be able to defend myself."
The parade was about to commence, and Susan was feeling that she was escorting an appallingly dangerous person, so she said, “Let's find a place to stand, away from the crowd."
"Over here,” Captain Groton said. He had already scoped out the terrain and located the best spot for surveillance: the raised stoop of an old apartment building, where he could stand with his back to the brick. He climbed the steps a bit stiffly, moving as if unused to knees that bent.
Okanoggan Falls had outdone itself. It was a particularly cheeky parade, full of double-entendre floats like the one carrying a group called the No Go Banjoes playing “Don't Fence Me In,” or the “I Don't Wanna Mooove” banner carried by the high school cheerleading squad in their black-and-white Holstein costumes. The captain's radio kept interrupting, and he spoke in a restrained, commanding voice to whoever was on the other end.
In the end, it all passed without intervention from any soldiers other than the one at Susan's side. When the crowd began to disperse, she found that she had been clenching her fists in tension, and was glad no one else was aware of the risk they had been running.
"What happens now?” Captain Groton said. He meant it militarily, she knew; all pretense of his purpose being social was gone.
"Everyone will break up now,” she said. “Some will go to the school ballfield for the fund-raiser picnic, but most won't gather again till the fireworks tonight. That will be about nine-thirty or ten o'clock."
He nodded. “I will go back to base, then."
She was battling mixed feelings, but at last said, “Captain—thank you, I think."
He studied her seriously. “I am just doing my duty."
That night on the television news, the celebration in Okanoggan Falls was
contrasted with the one in Red Bluff, where a lockdown curfew was in place, fireworks were banned, and Wattesoon tanks patrolled the empty streets.
* * * *
A week later, when Susan phoned Captain Groton, Ensign Agush took the call. “He cannot speak to you,” he said indifferently. “He is dying."
"What?” Susan said, thinking she had heard wrong.
"He has contracted one of your human diseases."
"Has anyone called a doctor?"
"No. He will be dead soon. There is no point."
Half an hour later, Susan was at the Wattesoon headquarters with her nurse's kit in hand. When the ensign realized he was facing a woman with the determination of a stormtrooper, he did not put up a fight, but showed her to the captain's quarters. He still seemed unconcerned about his commanding officer's imminent demise.
Captain Groton slumped in a chair in his spartan but private sitting room. The transformation in his appearance was even more remarkable; he was now tall and slender, even for a human, and his facial features had a distinctly human cast. He might have passed for an ordinary man in dim light.
An exceedingly miserable ordinary man. His eyes were red-rimmed, his face unshaved (she noted the facial hair with surprise), and his voice was a hoarse croak when he said, “Susan! I was just thinking I should thank you for your kindness before.... “He was interrupted by a sneeze.
Still preoccupied with his appearance, she said, “You are turning human, aren't you?"
"Your microbes evidently think so.” He coughed phlegm. “I have contracted an exceedingly repulsive disease."
She drew up a chair next to him. “What are your symptoms?"
He shook his head, obviously thinking the subject was not a fit one. “Don't be concerned. I am resigned to die."
"I'm asking as a professional."
Reluctantly, he said, “This body appears to be dissolving. It is leaking fluids from every orifice. There, I told you it was repulsive."
"Your throat is sore? Your nose is congested? Coughing and sneezing?"
"Yes, yes."
"My dear captain, what you have is called a cold."
"No!” he protested. “I am quite warm."
"That's probably because you have a fever.” She felt his forehead. “Yes. Well, fortunately, I've brought something for that.” She brought out a bottle of aspirin, some antihistamine, decongestant, and cough suppressant. She added a bottle of Vitamin C for good measure.
"You are not alarmed?” he asked hesitantly.
"Not very. In us, the disease normally cures itself in a week or so. Since your immune system has never encountered it before, I'm not sure about you. You have to level with me, captain. Have you become human in ways besides appearance?"
Vaguely, he said, “How long has it been?"
"How long has what been?"
"Since I first saw you."
She thought back. “About six weeks."
"The transformation is far advanced, then. In three weeks I will be indistinguishable from one of you."
"Internally as well?"
"You would need a laboratory to tell the difference."
"Then it should be safe to treat you as if you were human. I'll be careful, though.” She looked around the room for a glass of water. “Where's your ba—” It was a Wattesoon apartment; of course there was no bathroom. By now, she knew they excreted only hard, odorless pellets. “Where can I get a glass of water?"
"What for?” He looked mildly repulsed.
"For you to drink with these pills."
"Drink?"
"You mean to tell me you've had no fluids?"
"We don't require them...."
"Oh, dear Lord. You're probably dehydrated as well. You're going to have to change some habits, captain. Sit right there. I need to run to the grocery store."
At the grocery she stocked up on fruit juices, bottled water, tissues, and, after a moment's hesitation, toilet paper—though not relishing having to explain that one to him. She also bought soap, a washcloth, mouthwash, shaving gel, a packet of plastic razors, a pail, and a washbasin. Like it or not, he was going to have to learn.
She had dealt with patients in every state of mental derangement, but never had she had to teach one how to be human. When she had gotten him to down the pills and a bottle of orange juice, she explained the purpose of her purchases to him in plain, practical language. She showed him how to blow his nose, and explained how a human bladder and bowel worked, and the necessity of washing with soap and water. When she finished he looked, if anything, more despairing than before.
"It is not common knowledge to us that you are hiding these bodily deficiencies,” he said. “I fear I made a grave error in judgment."
"You're a soldier,” she said. “Stop dramatizing, and cope with it."
For a moment he stared, astonished at her commanding tone. Then she could see him marshaling his courage as if to face dismemberment and death. “You are justified to rebuke me,” he said. “I chose this. I must not complain."
Soon the antihistamine was making him drowsy, so she coaxed him to return to bed. “You're best off if you just sleep,” she told him. “Take more of the pills every four hours, and drink another bottle every time you wake. If you feel pressure and need to eliminate liquid, use the pail. Don't hold it in, it's very bad for you. Call me in the morning."
"You're leaving?” he said anxiously.
She had intended to, but at his disconsolate expression she relented. It made her realize that she could actually read expressions on his face now. She drew up a chair and sat. “I must say, your comrades here don't seem very sympathetic."
He was silent a few moments, staring bleakly at the ceiling. At last he said, “They are ashamed."
"Of what? You?"
"Of what I am becoming."
"A human? They're bigots, then."
"Yes. You have to understand, Susan, the army doesn't always attract the highest caliber of men."
She realized then that the drug, or the reprieve from death, had broken down his usual reticence. It put her in an odd position, to have the occupying commander relying on her in his current unguarded condition. Extracting military or political secrets would clearly violate medical ethics. But was personal and cultural information allowed? She made a snap decision: nothing that would hurt him. Cautiously, she said, “I didn't know that you Wattesoons had this ... talent ... ability ... to change your appearance."
"It only works with a closely related species,” he said drowsily. “We weren't sure you were similar enough. It appears you are."
"How do you do it?"
He paused a long time, then said, “I will tell you some day. The trait has been useful to us, in adapting to other planets. Planets more unlike our own than this one is."
"Is that why you changed? To be better adapted?"
"No. I felt it was the best way to carry out my orders."
She waited for him to explain that; when he didn't, she said, “What orders?"
"To oversee the evacuation on time and with minimal disturbance. I thought that looking like a human would be an advantage in winning the cooperation of the local populace. I wanted you to think of me as human. I did not know of the drawbacks then."
"Well, I don't think you would have fooled us anyway,” Susan said a little skeptically. “Can you change your mind now?"
"No. The chameleon process is part of our reproductive biology. We cannot change our minds about that, either."
The mention of reproduction brought up something she had often wondered about. “Why are there no Wattesoon women here?” she asked.
The subject seemed to evoke some sort of intense emotion for him. In a tight voice, he said, “Our women almost invariably die giving birth. The only ones who survive, as a rule, are childless, and they are rare. If it were not for the frequency of multiple births, we would have difficulty maintaining our population. We see the ease with which you human women give birth, and envy it."
&n
bsp; "It wasn't always this way,” Susan said. “We used to die much more frequently, as well. But that wasn't acceptable to us. We improved our medicine until we solved the problem."
Softly, he said, “It is not acceptable to us, either."
A realization struck her. “Is that what happened to your wife?"
"Yes."
She studied his face. “I think you must have loved her."
"I did. Too much."
"You can't blame yourself for her death."
"Who should I blame?"
"The doctors. The researchers who don't find a cure. The society that doesn't put a high enough priority on finding a solution."
He gave a little laugh. “That is a very human response."
"Well, we have solved our problem."
He considered that answer so long she thought he had fallen asleep. But just as she was rising to check, he said, “I think it is better to go through life as a passerby, detached from both the good and the bad. Especially from the good, because it always goes away."
Gently, Susan said, “Not always."
He looked at her with clouded eyes. “Always."
And then he really did fall asleep.
That evening, after the boys had gone up to their rooms, Susan told Tom everything over wine. Some of her medical details made him wince.
"Ouch. The poor bastard. Sounds worse than puberty, all crammed into nine weeks."
"Tom, you could really help him out,” Susan said. “There are things you could tell him, man to man, that I can't—"
"Oh no, I couldn't,” Tom said. “No way."
She protested, “But there are things about male anatomy—you expect me to warn him about all that?"
"Better you than me,” Tom said.
"Coward,” she said.
"Damn right. Listen, men just don't talk about these things. How am I supposed to bring it up? More to the point, why? He got himself into this. It was a military strategy. He even admitted it to you: he wanted to manipulate us to cooperate in our own conquest. I don't know why you're acting as if you're responsible for him."
Tom was right. She studied the wine in her glass, wondering at her own reaction. She had been empathizing as if Captain Groton were her patient, not her enemy. He had deliberately manipulated her feelings, and it had worked.