The darkened control room was more a place of sound than of sight, despite the banks of monitor screens lining one wall. Technicians moved about the room quietly, each one performing a specific task, and each one keeping an eye on the sweep hand as it glided past the halfway mark, moving inexorably toward the zero line.
"I still think this is a mistake, Morgan," a soft voice said anxiously. The man's face was little more than a silhouette against the lights of an instrument panel. "This could go very wrong."
"It could also make us both a lot of money," came the sharp response. "And it's too late to do anything about it now, anyway."
The sweep hand reached the five second mark, and every technician in the room who could look up from his work turned to watch as it finished its journey. Someone began to count off the final seconds.
"Five...four...three...two...one..."
In another room, a bank of lights came on, outlining the seated smiling figure of a man in stark relief. The man stared into the lights and opened his mouth to speak.
"Good evening, ladies and gentlemen," he said in a rich, melodious baritone. "This is a special live edition of The System Tonight, and I'm Robert Marshall."
Marshall let his eyes flicker nervously around the set as the applause of the studio audience rose around him. He passed over the chair next to his, with its rather gruesome occupant, and let his gaze linger instead on the lovingly polished table in front of him. It was made of real mahogany and had cost the studio enough to pay Marshall's astronomical salary for six months. He was very proud of it. Sitting on the table, on a delicate cloth coaster, was a crystal pitcher filled with very expensive brandy all the way from Earth. Beside the pitcher were two cut glass chalices. They were the trademark of the show, though no guest had ever been seen to use them.
By the time the applause died down and the camera panned back to him, Marshall was smiling again. "My guest tonight," he said in an excited voice, "Is none other than a member of the alien race that first contacted humanity only three days ago! Please welcome Saxys-17!!"
As the camera panned in to get a close-up of the alien, Marshall discreetly wiped the palms of his hands against his pant leg. The presence of his guest next to him was making him very nervous. Robert Marshall was beginning to discover that he was a raging xenophobe.
None of this showed on his face, of course. He was the most highly paid video personality in the system, and he liked to think that he earned his money.
He glanced nervously out of the corner of his eye at Saxys-17 and tried not to wince as he caught sight of several rows of sharply pointed teeth. The alien's skin was a sickly shade of grayish green and was stretched so tightly across his frame that his skeletal structure was graphically outlined. He had three arms, with the third sticking out of the center of his chest, and his lower jaw had a tendency to hang slackly open, revealing those daggerlike teeth all too clearly to suit Marshall.
Saxys-17 wore a one piece garment that had an opening cut into it between his center and left arms. The patch of chest revealed there had a three inch horizontal slit in it. It was a bizarre parody in flesh of the breast pocket of Marshall's immaculate and very expensive suit.
Bracing himself, Marshall turned and looked directly at the alien. When he spoke, his voice was bright and chipper. "Well, Saxys-17, how are you?"
The alien twisted his head to look at Marshall without moving the rest of his body. "Greeting, Robert Marshall," he said in a high, reedy voice. "I am fine. How are you?" The words had a slightly muddled quality about them, but they were easily understandable.
Marshall raised one eyebrow in surprise. It was a movement he practiced in front of the mirror regularly. "You speak our language very well," he said. "Did it take you long to learn it?"
Saxys-17 clapped his left and right hands gently together once and made a complicated gesture with his center arm. "Yes," he replied. "Though I thank you very much for the compliment, it took me nearly two-thirds of one revolution of your home planet to learn the words of your language."
Marshall raised his other eyebrow. Less than one day? He rather doubted that, but he wasn't going to antagonize the alien by saying so.
"Is this room comfortable enough for you, Saxys-17?" he asked pleasantly. "Is the temperature all right?"
Saxys-17 repeated the complicated gesture with his center hand. "I thank you very much for asking," he replied. "The environment is well within my normal tolerance limits."
The alien repeated the odd gesture a third time and then turned his two outer hands palms upward for a moment. "I would also like to compliment you on duplicating the setting my people use in such circumstances as these so exactly." He gestured at the pitcher and chalices. "And I would like to thank you for going to such efforts to make me feel...at home."
Marshall blinked rapidly several times in confusion and then smiled and said, "We're pleased that you like it. We have a great staff here, and they've done a fantastic job, as usual." He wasn't at all certain what the alien was talking about, but he wasn't going to let that bother him. Just let him get through the interview without the thing attacking him, and he would be fine.
"Saxys-17, why did your people decide to contact our race?" This was rather a delicate question, and Marshall wanted to get it out of the way as soon as possible.
Saxys-17 touched the middle finger of his middle hand to his head while he paused for thought and then replied, "What answer can there be to such a question? It was the thing to do." He tilted his head forward and made an odd gurgling sound. "Though I can say that we have monitored your transmissions for quite some time now, and I found that I liked your people."
Marshall turned to the camera and flashed his well known smile, glancing quickly down at the table as he did so. The highly polished surface reflected his smile back at him. "What do you like best about us?" he asked. The question hadn't been on his original list, but it had suddenly appeared on the teleprompter, which was connected to a transmitter in the control room.
Unexpectedly, Saxys-17's middle hand flashed downward in a blur of motion. His palm hit the table solidly, and a loud crack echoed across the studio. In the darkened control room, a technician yelled and ripped a pair of earphones off his head, and a gauge needle danced up into the red zone. The pitcher and chalices rocked from side to side but didn't quite fall.
Marshall, caught up in admiring his smile and the resonance of his own voice, jumped spasmodically in his seat and turned a glassy-eyed stare on his guest while adrenaline spurted through his body. For one long second, he was certain that Saxys-17 was about to attack him.
He recovered quickly, though his smile was not quite so luminous at it had been, and sweat was beginning to dot his brow.
"I quite like your sense of humor," Saxys-17 said calmly, totally unaware of the agitation he had caused.
"Oh?" Marshall asked, his voice rising a little in pitch. He glanced back toward the teleprompter for help. "Well, that's nice. I..." His voice trailed off as he caught sight of his beloved table. There was an imprint of Saxys-17's palm a quarter of an inch deep in the wood. Marshall gave an involuntary gasp, and his face paled.
In the control room, the assistant producer slowly and deliberately closed his eyes. Several technicians adjusted the camera feed so that Marshall's face would appear it's normal hue in the transmitted image. Morgan Childry, the show's producer/director, quickly whispered several comments into a small transmitter. They appeared instantly on the teleprompter.
His smile steadily dimming and beginning to tilt to one side, Marshall dragged his eyes away from the mutilated table. "Our sense of humor?" he asked weakly, reading Childry's words since he was unable to think up any of his own.
"Oh, yes," Saxys-17 replied, his hands tracing complex symbols in the air. Then he tilted his head to the left and added, "It is not appreciated by all members of my race, but by many, myself included."
Marshall, his eyes wide, swallowed audibly. He jerked his head sharply in the direction of the teleprompter. "Really," he said in a tense voice. "That's fascinating." The damage to his precious table amounted to near sacrilege in Marshall's eyes, and that, on top of worry over what the alien was going to do next, had him thoroughly rattled. "Uh...How...us...how far away from us is your home planet?" He was certain it wasn't far enough.
"I cannot express the distance in a manner that would be comprehensible to you, I am sorry," Saxys-17 said, placing his left and right hands against his head. "I have not yet adequately grasped any of your measurement systems."
"Well...um...why were you particularly the one who came to meet us?" Slowly, Marshall was beginning to regain a little of his poise.
Saxys-17 raised the middle finger of his middle hand to his head as he replied, "That is a difficult question to answer. There were many volunteers. Each one was challenged by a series of tests. In the end, I was selected."
"Well, why did you volunteer?" Marshall's voice had regained some of its old timbre, and his artificial smile was starting to shine again.
The alien's eyes narrowed, and his center hand was suddenly in motion again. It slammed into the table in exactly the same spot as before, but with more force. Three speakers blew out, and, for one awful moment, Marshall was certain he was going to faint. His heart raced, and his vision grew dim. When his eyes finally cleared, he wished they hadn't.
The impact of Saxys-17's hand had occurred with enough force to drive his palm all the way through the table. What had previously been an imprint of the alien's palm was now a palm shaped hole.
Saxys-17, apparently still pondering the question, bent down, picked up the chunk of wood he had knocked free, and contemplated it for a moment. A large claw extended itself from each finger on his center hand. The claws interlocked to firm a single, razor sharp blade. Using this, the alien casually stripped the stain and varnish off the piece of wood in his hand. Then he calmly bit off a chunk and began to chew. The sound transmitted well, and every viewer heard it clearly.
Marshall's mouth flopped open and shut several times. Most of the camera operators quickly cut away from the show's host.
"I'm not certain," Saxys-17 said suddenly.
Marshall stared at him stupidly. He had forgotten that he had even asked a question.
"It was simply something that I desired to do," the alien explained. He waved the hand holding the chunk of wood at Marshall and added, "This is quite palatable."
Marshall made a growling sound deep in his throat. That table was a treasure to him, and to watch some bug-eyed monster casually waving chunks of it around and eating it...
There was a very long moment of silence broken only by the sound of Saxys-17 chewing. It seemed, for an instant, as if Marshall was going to attack his guest. Then he remembered those teeth and claws. With a visible effort, he jerked his head sharply in the direction of the teleprompter, his mouth moving rapidly. Those members of the viewing audience able to read lips were shocked.
While Marshall had been distracted, Childry had come up with several questions for him to ask his guest. Marshall stared at them for a moment, then he turned to the nearest camera, smiled his brightest smile, and said, "Well, that's about all we have time for."
The stage manager looked startled and then began to wave his arms frantically and mouth the word, "No!" with exaggerated distinctness while shaking he head and pointing to his watch. Marshall smiled brightly at him.
"I'd like to thank my guest, Saxys-17"--he very carefully avoided looking at either the alien or the table--"for being with me tonight."
With a start, the alien set the piece of wood down. "Apologetics," he said, clasping his left and right hands together. "I had not realized that we were finished."
He leaned forward, picked up the pitcher, and filled one of the chalices. Marshall goggled at him. No guest ever drank out of those glasses or touched what was in the pitcher. The combined price of the crystal and brandy was more than that of the table.
Saxys-17, however, had no intention of drinking the brandy. The glasses and liquid bore an unfortunate resemblance to vessels and a fluid used on his home world in a farewell ceremony. He picked up the full glass, turned to Marshall, pulled open the breast pocket of the host's suit, and carefully emptied the contents of the glass into it.
Marshall could only wave his hands uselessly as a fantastically expensive beverage ruined a fantastically expensive suit. He watched a large stain spread across the jacket and shirt and stared weakly at the alien.
Saxys-17 was waiting expectantly.
Deep in Marshall's mind, something clicked. Slowly, painfully carefully, he filled the other chalice. Leaning forward, his mind fogged, anything to keep the monster happy, Marshall took hold of the flap of skin on the alien's chest. It was dry and leathery and seemed to be pulsing slightly. He tugged it gently open. Inside, the skin was a garish red. Marshall emptied the contents of the glass into the opening and then sat back. He was breathing heavily and had a strangely twisted, slightly foolish smile on his face.
The pitcher was still well over half full, and Saxys-17 looked at it, nodding his head gently and lifting his center hand. "Ah, but I see you have allowed your servants to prepare too much." He looked at Marshall. "And, as you are the host, you must..." He reached for the pitcher.
"Must I?" Marshall asked in a shaky voice, looking at the alien.
Careful not to spill any, Saxys-17 emptied the entire pitcher into Marshall's breast pocket. The stain spread past his shirt and down onto his pants. Marshall just sat numbly in his chair throughout the entire process.
Saxys-17 gently sat the pitcher down.
"Aren't you going to destroy that as well?" Marshall asked him.
"Oh, is that your custom?" the alien asked. Then, before anyone could stop him, he shattered the pitcher against the floor. Marshall moaned loudly.
"And now," Saxys-17 asked, joining all three of his hands in a confusing tangle of digits, "Which one of your servants is going to serve?" He looked around in apparent curiosity.
Marshall gaped at the alien, his eyes strangely vague. "What?"
"The bloodwash," Saxys-17 explained in a very soft voice. "Which one of your servants is going to lend their vital fluids to the ceremony?"
There was a very long pause, and then Marshall gave vent to a harsh, guttural sound. It welled up from deep inside him and wrenched itself from his mouth. "All right," he said, his voice rough and his eyes starting to glisten. He looked around the studio until his eyes fell on camera two and its operator. "How about Gordie?" He lowered his voice in a whispered aside. "I've never liked him. He goes out of his way to catch my bad side." He raised his voice in a lilting call. "Oh, Gordie! How would you like to be on the show?" His face twitched spastically once. "I think it's the chance of a lifetime!"
Several million viewers watched Robert Marshall lurch to his feet and launch himself toward camera two in berserk fury. Then the picture jogged violently and millions of screens went blank. An instant later, the show's logo filled those screens, accompanied by the words, "We are experiencing technical difficulties. Please stand by."
The technicians in the control room watched in astonishment as three camera operators wrestled Marshall to the floor. The fourth opted to record the event rather than participate in it. Marshall struggled spasmodically for a few moments, his breathing ragged, and then went suddenly limp, mumbling incoherently.
The assistant producer turned to his boss, Morgan Childry, and gestured at the monitor that showed Marshall pinned to the floor. "Well?" he asked.
"You're right," Childry replied with a heavy nod. "You're right. Bob blew it. We'll have to replace him."
"Morgan!" the assistant producer cried. "I didn't--"
"Wait a minute!" Childry snapped his fingers and pointed at one of the monitors. Saxys-17 was still in his seat. The sudden turn of events had apparently had no effect on him at all. "If we could get the alien to host the program, the ratings would--"
"Don't you think," the assistant producer offered acidly, "That it might be just a little inconvenient if he wants to kill someone after every show?"
"Oh, please," Childry said. "He doesn't mean to actually kill anyone. You're so literal." He ran out of the control room and into the studio. "Saxys-17," he said, "I'd like to talk to you!"
Saxys-17 watched Childry approaching and casually expressed the claws on his center hand.
"Oh, good," he thought contentedly. "Things are so much easier when they volunteer..."
Bio:"I am a college biology teacher living in the southeastern US with my wife, one dog, and one cat, which is plenty of cats but several dogs too few. All in all, I think the universe is a lot sillier than we can possibly imagine, which won't stop me from trying."
E-mail: benedet@esn.net
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