"We actually haven’t had time to question him. Among other things, there’s been some controversy about whose jurisdiction he comes under. The State Department claims the Army shouldn’t—"
The Secretary General sighed deeply. "Just what did he do?"
"The Secret Service reports he spent the day whistling Mother Machree and playing with his dog, cat and mouse."
"Dog, cat and mouse? I say!" blurted Sir Alfred.
The President was defensive. "He had to have some occupation, and he seems to be particularly interested in our animal life. He wanted a horse but compromised for the others. I understand he insists all three of them come with him wherever he goes."
"I wish we knew what he was going to say," Andersen worried.
"Here he comes," said Sir Alfred.
Surrounded by F.B.I. men, Dameri Tass was ushered to the speaker’s stand. He had a kitten in his arms; a Scotty followed him.
The alien frowned worriedly. "Sure," he said, "and what kin all this be? Is it some ordinance I’ve been after breakin’?"
McCord, Sir Alfred and Andersen hastened to reassure him and made him comfortable in a chair.
Viljalmar Andersen faced the thousands in the audience and held up his hands, but it was ten minutes before he was able to quiet the cheering, stamping delegates from all Earth.
Finally: "Fellow Terrans, I shall not take your time for a lengthy introduction of the envoy from the stars. I will only say that, without doubt, this is the most important moment in the history of the human race. We will now hear from the first being to come to Earth from another world."
He turned and gestured to Dameri Tass who hadn’t been paying overmuch attention to the chairman in view of some dog and cat hostilities that had been developing about his feet.
But now the alien’s purplish face faded to a light blue. He stood and said hoarsely. "Faith, an’ what was that last you said?"
Viljalmar Andersen repeated, "We will now hear from the first being ever to come to Earth from another world."
The face of the alien went a lighter blue. "Sure, an’ ye wouldn’t jist be frightenin’ a body, would ye? You don’t mean to tell me this planet isn’t after bein’ a member of the Galactic League?"
Andersen’s face was blank. "Galactic League?"
"Cushlamachree," Dameri Tass moaned. "I’ve gone and put me foot in it again. I’ll be after getting kert for this."
Sir Alfred was on his feet. "I don’t understand! Do you mean you aren’t an envoy from another planet?"
Dameri Tass held his head in his hands and groaned. "An envoy, he’s sayin’, and meself only a second-rate collector of specimens for the Carthis zoo."
He straightened and started off the speaker’s stand. "Sure, an’ I must blast off immediately."
Things were moving fast for President McCord but already an edge of relief was manifesting itself. Taking the initiative, he said, "Of course, of course, if that is your desire." He signaled to the bodyguard who had accompanied the alien to the assemblage.
A dull roar was beginning to emanate from the thousands gathered in the tremendous hall, murmuring, questioning, disbelieving.
*
Viljalmar Andersen felt that he must say something. He extended a detaining hand. "Now you are here," he said urgently, "even though by mistake, before you go can’t you give us some brief word? Our world is in chaos. Many of us have lost faith. Perhaps ..."
Dameri Tass shook off the restraining hand. "Do I look daft? Begorry, I should have been a-knowin’ something was queer. All your weapons and your strange ideas. Faith, I wouldn’t be surprised if ye hadn’t yet established a planet-wide government. Sure, an’ I’ll go still further. Ye probably still have wars on this benighted world. No wonder it is ye haven’t been invited to join the Galactic League an’ take your place among the civilized planets."
He hustled from the rostrum and made his way, still surrounded by guards, to the door by which he had entered. The dog and the cat trotted after, undismayed by the furor about them.
They arrived about four hours later at the field on which he’d landed, and the alien from space hurried toward his craft, still muttering. He’d been accompanied by a general and by the President, but all the way he had refrained from speaking.
He scurried from the car and toward the spacecraft.
President McCord said, "You’ve forgotten your pets. We would be glad if you would accept them as—"
The alien’s face faded a light blue again. "Faith, an’ I’d almost forgotten," he said. "If I’d taken a crature from this quarantined planet, my name’d be nork. Keep your dog and your kitty." He shook his head sadly and extracted a mouse from a pocket. "An’ this amazin’ little crature as well."
They followed him to the spacecraft. Just before entering, he spotted the bedraggled horse that had been present on his landing.
A longing expression came over his highly colored face. "Jist one thing," he said. "Faith now, were they pullin’ my leg when they said you were after ridin’ on the back of those things?"
The President looked at the woebegone nag. "It’s a horse," he said, surprised. "Man has been riding them for centuries."
Dameri Tass shook his head. "Sure, an’ ‘twould’ve been my makin’ if I could’ve taken one back to Carthis." He entered his vessel.
The others drew back, out of range of the expected blast, and watched, each with his own thoughts, as the first visitor from space hurriedly left Earth.
The Glory of Ippling
by Helen M. Urban
He brought them life and hope. Why wouldn’t the fools take it from him?
There’s an axiom in the galaxy: The more complicated the machine, the bigger mess it can make. Like the time the planetary computer for Buughabyta flipped its complete grain-futures series. The computer ordered only 15 acres, and Buughabytians had to live for a full year off the government’s stored surplus—thus pounding down the surplus, forcing up the price, eliminating the subsidy and balancing the Buughabytian budget for fifteen years—an unprecedented bit of nonsense that almost had permanent effects. But a career economist with an eye for flubup and complication managed to restore balanced disorder, bringing Buughabyta right back to normalcy.
Or like the time a matter-duplicator receiver misread OCH3CH3OH, to turn out a magnificently busted blonde sphygmomano-raiser with an HOCH3OH replacement, putting a strain on the loyalty of a billion teen-age girls dedicated to Doyle Oglevie worship. Doyle-she insisted she was Doyle-he, as it took quite a while for her hormones to overcome the memory of his easy, eyelash-flapping, tone-torturing microphone conquests. Put a strain on his wardrobe, too.
No machine, of course, can compare for complexity with any group of humans who have been collected into machine-like precision of operation. Take one time when an Ipplinger Cultural Contact Group was handed a Boswellister with V.I.P. connections and orders to put him to an assignment—for his maturity.
*
Boswellister sat patiently. He squirmed emotionally up and down his backbone, but he affected a disdainful appearance of patience in view of the importance of his and his poppa’s positions compared with the pawn-like minusculity of the audience’s.
The Blond Terror strode majestically down the aisle of the open air sports arena, preceded by twenty-four harem-darling dancing girls. The orchestra wailed an oriental sinuosity of woodwinds and drums, accompanying the hip-twitching, nearly naked, sloe- (by benefit of make-up) eyed, black-haired beauties.
Fifteen heavyweights, draped in leopard