apparently decided to translate English terms for time
directly into the Host’s terms, which created even more confusion because
everyone started out assuming they were talking about the same units of time,
only to discover that they were not.
Patch was the most familiar with
the station’s method of keeping time, but he was alarmingly unsure and chose
this particular delicate moment in the history of diplomacy to start making
jokes about short-term memory loss.
They did the best they could to
select a time, but even with a remote assist from Thorpe back in the living
area, no one was entirely confident. Max and Moritz decided to eliminate the
possibility of missing Philippe by maintaining a constant vigil outside the
door leading to the human’s living area for however long it took for him to emerge
again.
Philippe, of course, insisted that
some other solution be found. Eventually a passing Swimmer drone was hailed,
and it was arranged that, if Philippe were to come out and find that Max and
Moritz were not there, he would notify the nearest Swimmer drone, and the
drones would find and notify the Hosts.
Philippe returned to his office,
where he sat and tried to think of how to best explain to the DiploCorps that
the beloved Communicator, the ultimate diplomat, was nothing more than a
talking head who may or may not have threatened to eat them.
There was a knock on the door to
Philippe’s office. “Come in!” he said, eager for the distraction.
It was Baby, the pale young woman
who had pulled out a knife to demonstrate the effectiveness of her lonjons. “Hey,
Trang,” she said. “The doctor can adjust everyone’s eyes, if you want, so that
it’s less orange out there.”
It was just too much bafflement for
one man to take. “What?” Philippe asked.
“You know, an eye adjustment, where
he puts an adjustment on there.” She pointed to her eyes.
“How does he do that?”
Baby shrugged. “I don’t know—I
ain’t no doctor. He just hooks you up to that thing like they always do.”
“They’ve never done that to me,”
Philippe said.
She gave him a perplexed look, and
then comprehension dawned on her face. “Oh, you know, I was thinking you was
like an SFer—I forgot about the whole Amish thing. Your eyes are natural?”
“Yes.”
“Yeah, that’s it—we’re augmented.
We all have the implants. That way, we can get adjustment for night fighting or
whatever. But if you’re natural, then never mind it.”
“Oh, OK,” said Philippe.
She started to leave, but before
she could he asked, “Um, do you know who we’re supposed to give our reports
to?”
“Thorpe. Or Vip. They’re the com
officers.”
“Do you know where either of them
would be?”
“Probably the com center,” said
Baby. “I’m headed that way—do you want me to take your report to ’em?”
“I’m not done yet, but thanks for
offering.” Philippe looked at her for a moment, unsure. “Do you mind if I ask
you something?”
“Go ahead,” she said, stepping in
and closing the door.
“Everyone seems to call you Baby—is
that what I should call you?”
“It’s my name,” she said.
“Your real name?” he asked. She
nodded. “Oh, all right, I thought it was a nickname. And I felt a little funny
calling a big tough SFer who I’d just met Baby.”
She laughed. “It’s OK because it’s
my name—but I don’t think I’d let nobody just call me Baby. There’s some
crazy nicknames, though. Five-Eighths? That’s just disgusting. And I know if I
was a man, I wouldn’t want nobody calling me Pinky or Cut. I mean, really.
There were some people in one of my other units who wanted to call me Baby
Killer, but I said, ‘Oh no.’”
“I can see why,” said Philippe, who
had figured out Pinky and Cut but was still stumped by her objection to
Five-Eighths.
“Yeah, I don’t kill babies. I ain’t
no Yooper.”
The casualness of the jab irritated
Philippe and interrupted his mental recitation of all
directly into the Host’s terms, which created even more confusion because
everyone started out assuming they were talking about the same units of time,
only to discover that they were not.
Patch was the most familiar with
the station’s method of keeping time, but he was alarmingly unsure and chose
this particular delicate moment in the history of diplomacy to start making
jokes about short-term memory loss.
They did the best they could to
select a time, but even with a remote assist from Thorpe back in the living
area, no one was entirely confident. Max and Moritz decided to eliminate the
possibility of missing Philippe by maintaining a constant vigil outside the
door leading to the human’s living area for however long it took for him to emerge
again.
Philippe, of course, insisted that
some other solution be found. Eventually a passing Swimmer drone was hailed,
and it was arranged that, if Philippe were to come out and find that Max and
Moritz were not there, he would notify the nearest Swimmer drone, and the
drones would find and notify the Hosts.
Philippe returned to his office,
where he sat and tried to think of how to best explain to the DiploCorps that
the beloved Communicator, the ultimate diplomat, was nothing more than a
talking head who may or may not have threatened to eat them.
There was a knock on the door to
Philippe’s office. “Come in!” he said, eager for the distraction.
It was Baby, the pale young woman
who had pulled out a knife to demonstrate the effectiveness of her lonjons. “Hey,
Trang,” she said. “The doctor can adjust everyone’s eyes, if you want, so that
it’s less orange out there.”
It was just too much bafflement for
one man to take. “What?” Philippe asked.
“You know, an eye adjustment, where
he puts an adjustment on there.” She pointed to her eyes.
“How does he do that?”
Baby shrugged. “I don’t know—I
ain’t no doctor. He just hooks you up to that thing like they always do.”
“They’ve never done that to me,”
Philippe said.
She gave him a perplexed look, and
then comprehension dawned on her face. “Oh, you know, I was thinking you was
like an SFer—I forgot about the whole Amish thing. Your eyes are natural?”
“Yes.”
“Yeah, that’s it—we’re augmented.
We all have the implants. That way, we can get adjustment for night fighting or
whatever. But if you’re natural, then never mind it.”
“Oh, OK,” said Philippe.
She started to leave, but before
she could he asked, “Um, do you know who we’re supposed to give our reports
to?”
“Thorpe. Or Vip. They’re the com
officers.”
“Do you know where either of them
would be?”
“Probably the com center,” said
Baby. “I’m headed that way—do you want me to take your report to ’em?”
“I’m not done yet, but thanks for
offering.” Philippe looked at her for a moment, unsure. “Do you mind if I ask
you something?”
“Go ahead,” she said, stepping in
and closing the door.
“Everyone seems to call you Baby—is
that what I should call you?”
“It’s my name,” she said.
“Your real name?” he asked. She
nodded. “Oh, all right, I thought it was a nickname. And I felt a little funny
calling a big tough SFer who I’d just met Baby.”
She laughed. “It’s OK because it’s
my name—but I don’t think I’d let nobody just call me Baby. There’s some
crazy nicknames, though. Five-Eighths? That’s just disgusting. And I know if I
was a man, I wouldn’t want nobody calling me Pinky or Cut. I mean, really.
There were some people in one of my other units who wanted to call me Baby
Killer, but I said, ‘Oh no.’”
“I can see why,” said Philippe, who
had figured out Pinky and Cut but was still stumped by her objection to
Five-Eighths.
“Yeah, I don’t kill babies. I ain’t
no Yooper.”
The casualness of the jab irritated
Philippe and interrupted his mental recitation of all
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