JOSEPH R. DEMARE - FRANCHISED

Joseph R. DeMare is a fifty-something father of two great young men. 
He divides his time between writing, producing his radio show/podcast/youtube channel "For A Green Future," and being Political Director of the Ohio Green Party. He maintains his sanity with the help of frequent walks in nature and long talks with his wife of 35 years. Recent publications include a story in "The Quint," poetry in "Starline Magazine," and an article in "Reunions."

Franchised
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    Sam drifted slowly back into consciousness, led by the strong smell of freshly brewed coffee. Before opening his eyes, he took an extra deep breath in through his nose and let it out slowly. He tried to remember what day it was an realized he could not. Two little furrows appeared between his eyebrows as he felt a mounting confusion. What day was it? Thursday? Before his confusion tuned into panic, he called out, “Sara! What day is it?”
     “Thursday, May 27, 2201 6:45 Greenwich mean time. Tuesday, April 14, 2199 8:45 PM relative ship time.” Sara's always sympathetic voice came from all directions at once.
     Relative ship time? That meant he was on mission. That's right! He was on THE mission! He opened his eyes and tried to bolt upright, but his body simply refused to respond. He had managed to lift his torso up an inch or so, but then had to let it fall back onto the bed. He tried again, this time slowly reaching for the hand holds in his sleeping cubicle before attempting to sit up. He could almost feel the electrons forcing their way down hi neurons causing each muscle sell to contract, following neural pathways that had not been used for over a year. He felt like Gulliver, breaking thousands of tiny lines as each muscle fiber contracted.
     He swung his legs around and began removing the electrodes he had taped to his own skin, months ago. Controlled by Sara, they had kept his muscles toned during the long hibernation. But it was a poor substitute for real motion and Sam winced as he stood up, muscles aching in odd places all over his body. He knew that cameras were recording his naked body's every movement and waiver. Sara was sending that information back to Earth in a constant stream that would not be viewed by another human being for at least two years.
     He strode across the room to the clothes locker as confidently as he could. “Ship's status, Sara, and how's that coffee coming?”
     “All systems nominal. Ship is in day 200 of deceleration with solar panels deployed. We will begin initial orbit around planet Leia in four days, six hours, twelve minutes, and 32 seconds.”
     “How many seconds, Sara”
     “27.”
     “How many?”
     “25.”
     “What was that number, again?”
     There was a pause. “Coffee is ready Do you really want it or shall I recycle it?”
     Sam smiled. It had taken him months, but before he had gone into hibernation, he had trained Sara to recognized and to some degree respond to teasing. His smile faded as he remembered the next step in the mission protocol. He said nothing as he deliberately got his coffee and sat down at the debriefing table. The answer to the next question had grave implications both for himself and the entire human race.
     “Planetary assay?”
     A three dimensional display of the planet Leia appeared, hovering above the desktop before him. “The planet's surface temperatures range from -2 degrees Celsius to 50 degrees. Gravity is 1.2 times Earth average. Atmospheric composition differs from long range observations with increasing levels of hydrocarbons and heavy metals.” There was a pause. “No artificial emissions measured in the radio wavelengths. However, in the infrared, visible, and ultraviolet portions of the spectrum, emissions follow geometric patterns on the night side of the planet. Additionally, numerous objects have been tracked entering and leaving planetary orbit, showing changes in direction and speed. Objects range in size from 1,000 cubic meters to 20,000 cubic kilometers. As Sara was speaking, images of what were obviously spaceships appeared and rotated before Sam before shrinking down to dots that flew around the image of Leia, leaving little glowing trails.
     “Conclusion,” Sara continued, “Level 4 civilization. No communication has been attempted or monitored.” Level 4. That meant a level of civilization and technology beyond Earth's.
     He had spent years training for first contact. The best minds on Earth had prepared him for every conceivable scenario, but the problem with a Level 4 civilization was that it would present challenges which were, by definition, inconceivable, beyond human technology and so undefinable.
     “Has Star Command been notified?” Of course, he expected the answer to be “Yes.” This was Sara's primary objective. She was programmed to get the information about Leia back to Earth at all costs, even sacrificing Sam's life if necessary. That's why Sara's answer shocked him.
     “The data has been sent to the programmed coordinates. However, no communication or acknowledgment has been received from Star Command for approximately six months. I have been unable to verify that the transmitted data has been received.”
     “WHAT?!” A thousand nightmare scenarios raced through Sam's imagination. There had to have been some kind of disaster on Earth, perhaps an asteroid strike or even a nuclear war. “Play the last transmission received.”
     The kindly face of Regina Owens, Mission Commander, replaced the 3D image of Leia. “Sam,” she said in a voice heavy with worry and frustration, “Sam, you should be receiving this shortly after waking up. I still can't believe it. Our funding has been cut. We've had another economic collapse. The space agency missed the last two payments to the World Bank, and all of Star Command's assets are being repossessed and auctioned off. Some of us have pooled our savings and bought the old radio telescope on Mount Aricibo. We figure if we can lease some time on the Luna One scope, we can create a virtual array big enough to get at least some data back from Sara. But we won't have nearly enough power to communicate back to you.
     “This is our last transmission to you. If it's any consolation, Over eight billion people signed the online petition to the World Bank to keep funding going, but after the last global currency devaluation, most people can't even afford one vote for the World Bank Board of Trustees, and it was the Board called in our loan.
     “I guess we're going to have to wait for your return to get the full story of what's out there. I know you can do it, Sam. You're literally the best Earth has to offer, and I'm confident that in four more years, you'll be touching down in Alberta, just as we planned. I'll be there to give you a hug and a kiss, Board of Trustees be damned! Good Luck and Goddess protect you.” The image of Regina opened her mouth as if to say something more, but then she clamped her jaw shut and reached for a switch outside the field of view and her image disappeared.
     Sam sat, unmoving and stunned. Budget cuts. It was beyond belief. His mission had been the most successful crowd-sourced project in history. Billions of people had pledged their hard earned yuan to create and support Star Command, and now it was dismantled and he was alone. He had been alone for the entire mission, of course, far beyond any aid Star Command could have sent. But knowing that someone was at least watching, monitoring his progress, had made him feel as if someone had been there in the ship with him. Now...
     Now, nothing had changed. There were still billions of people who cared. He still had everything he needed to complete his mission and return to Earth. He would not let them down. “Failure is not an option!” he said aloud. There were still some governments that could afford to monitor his transmissions clandestinely. Regina and the others would do everything they could to keep listening, he knew. “Sara, calculate when our transmission could be received by an Aracibo/Luna One array, and send mission critical summaries to coincide with those conjunctions. Otherwise, continue normal data stream.”
     “Understood, Sam.”
     “Next, have you detected any pattern or methodology used by the ships entering Leia's orbit?”
       “Yes, there are nine distinct bands of ships in equatorial orbit. Approaches are made from the north and departures to the south. The ships in each band have similar masses.”
     “Fine. Determine an orbital band and trajectory for us, matching that pattern, and take us in. Let's go meet the neighbors.”
     Four days later, Sam's hands sweated at the controls of the lander. It was designed similarly to an Apollo lunar lander, but with oversize feet. It was able to land on any surface, from an ocean of petroleum to polished iron. The computer could have landed the ship, but Sam wanted to be at the helm if anything unexpected, an anti-aircraft missile for example, showed up. He had studied the planet carefully before deciding where to land. Most of the planet's surface was covered with the structures of civilization: tall buildings in a variety of shapes; roads and cleared areas that looked like town squares; and walkways that carried pedestrians in a dizzying array of sizes, shapes, and colors.
     The beings moving about on the surface used every kind of locomotion used by creatures on Earth and some which Earth's evolution had never devised. There were beings that hopped on one leg, some with two, three, four six, up to what looked like a thousand. Others had no legs. Some flew. Some had rollers. Others moved about with mechanical treads. There were even some that appeared to be using Segways, that weird two-wheeled contrivance that almost became popular in the 21st century on Earth.
     He had chosen to land in what appeared to be the second largest city on the planet. As far as he could tell, the planet was at peace. There were some places that appeared to be abandoned, with just a few creatures wandering between empty buildings. There were also a very few places that seemed to be covered in vegetation, especially along rivers. Nowhere did he see signs of conflict. No explosions, no buildings that were destroyed, no bodies lying about. So, he was fairly hopeful that his arrival would not spark any kind of geopolitical conflict. He also chose an area on the edge of the busiest part of the city. He didn't want to disrupt any essential activities. He did, however, want to land somewhere active enough that that beings on the planet would be forced to notice him.
 
     He had chosen a landing spot where eight long boulevards came together. Where they joined, there was a huge roundabout, and he aimed for the center. Transports of many different designs drove up to and away from the roundabout on the broad boulevards. Pedestrian lanes paralleled the boulevards with high pedestrian bridges that swept up, over the roundabout traffic lanes and then more arched bridges that joined the ends of the boulevards around the outside edge of the cleared area in the center. That area covered about four acres, and vehicles were continuously pulling of to the edge, dropping off or picking up pedestrians.
     He hovered above the center of the roundabout, descending extremely slowly, giving the alien creatures plenty of time to clear away from the area his retro rockets would blast clean. As he brough his ship down for a landing, he could see the faces the creatures turned towards him on his view screen. Some had a few, huge eyes; others had many tiny eyes. Some had pits where he expected their eyes to be. Sam guessed those aliens were using infrared vision because they were shading their faces from the hot glare of his rockets with apparent distress.
     As the flames grew closer to the ground, huge clouds of dust began to billow out in all directions. Aliens on the ground scrambled back to the edges of the circular area, and back up onto the pedestrian bridges. Traffic in the roundabout came to a halt as the dust cloud enveloped everything. 'Well, I've definitely gotten their attention,' thought to himself as the ship touched down with a slight jar. He watched on the view screens as the crowds around the ship began to move back in towards it. He raced through the shut down check list, then went to the hatch carrying only two items. One was a large, flat computer display screen about 3 feet square. The other was a tall standard. It had a piece of black fabric display screen two feet wide and seven feet tall, hanging from a crosspiece on top of a simple aluminum pole. In the center, the planet Earth was displayed, slowly rotating.
     He paused with his hand over the button that would open the hatch. He knew from the biological and chemical assays he had done while in orbit that the environment outside was perfectly safe, but once he broke the seal there would be no turning back. Earth air would mix with alien and everything would be changed. He pushed the button.
     The hatch swung open with a hiss, and  Sam stepped out onto a little platform which held him up about ten feet above the ground. A ramp had extended itself from the ship down to the ground level, but he did not descend.  At this height, he stood above most, but not all of the watching aliens. Out at the edge of the roundabout, the crowd was circulating again, and Sam could see the vehicles starting to move as the dust cloud dissipated. But there was still a crowd of about 5,00 pressing up close to the ship, their attention turned towards him.
     “Greetings from the People of Earth!” Sam shouted out to the crowd. He pointed from himself to the image of Earth on the standard. Then he held up the display screen and played a video representation of his ship leaving the Earth and traveling to Leia with a little bar at the bottom that showed what percentage of light speed his ship was traveling as it made the journey.
     The response from the crowd was a bewildering cacophony of sights and sounds. The aliens were talking amongst themselves. Some were using gestures, some changed colors, others made noises ranging from what sounded like an articulated hippo bellow to a piccolo. Most of them seemed to understand each other, despite the wide array of communication strategies. About two thirds of the aliens turned away and headed towards waiting vehicles or pedestrian walkways.
     The remaining aliens seemed to be trying to communicate with Sam. Their gestures grew more animated or their colors flashed more and more brightly. Sam could make no sense of the din. He put his display panel down and held his hands out, palm outwards in what he hoped would be recognized as a gesture of peace. This elicited an even more animated response, and a large gangly alien that looked something like a stick bug strode over to the ship and delicately took hold of one of Sam's hands between two pinchers. He held Sam's hand out towards the crowd and made loud clicking noises. Then a large, beige slug-like creature made its way up the ramp to Sam. A thin pseudopod appeared from the creature's side and reached into a cavity on its back. It pulled out a piece of grey mesh about a foot square with one inch squares. It held the mesh out over Sam's head, then let it drop. He felt it tighten and change shape over his scalp. There was a tingling sensation that sent shivers down his spine and raised goosebumps all over his body. He looked a the alien's raised eye stalks in confusion when suddenly he was blasted by the sound of a hundred trumpets. He fell to the ground, clutching his ears, even though the sound had not come in through his ears but instead had come directly into his mind. He endured five or six more trumpet blasts before reaching up and pulling the mesh off his head. He held it out, sheepishly back to his feet. The alien took it back, its cold, slightly slimy pseudopod brushing Sam's fingers.
     The two aliens began to communicate with each other, one making clicking noises, the other moaning sounds. As they talked, Sam looked out over the crowd and down the boulevards. It looked weirdly familiar. He rubbed  his eyes in shock. It WAS weirdly familiar. There were signs in front of many of the buildings. Some of them were just incomprehensible symbols, but some he recognized. There was a pair of yellow arches. Next to it was a sign shaped like a bucket, though the face upon it was definitely NOT that of Colonel Sanders. Another showed a sphere divided into spiral slices precisely like the AT&T logo.
     He suddenly noticed a tremendous creature striding towards him across the plaza. It was at least twenty feet tall. In its height and general shape, it resembled the stick bug creature, but it was much more substantive. It wore a tight fighting outfit that clearly showed rippling muscles on its many legs. Deftly and quickly, it strode up through the crowd, not needing to break stride or slow in the slightest as  it came up to Sam's lander. It turned and made a droning sound and most of the remaining crowd began to disperse, though a few hung back seemingly curious.  
     The large alien turned back to the three of them on the lander. Its spherical head fixed them with the one eye that was front and center, while two other eyes on either side stared outwards at right angles. Drones, clicks, and moans were exchanged between the three aliens. The first two began to move off. The new alien reached into a pouch on its waist and pulled out another mesh screen.
     Sam stood as still and, he hoped, bravely as he could. Hoping that the mesh would provide some kind of communication between alien species. Sure enough, he again felt the mesh tighten around  his scalp. Somewhere at the edge of his perception there were whispers,”birth,” “death,””growth,””movement,” and many others too rapid and subtle for him to perceive. The alien continued to look at him with what he now perceived to be a serious expression. 'This is it,' Sam thought to himself, 'the very first human/alien communication.'
     “You can't park here.” the alien's “voice” was heavy with authority. Sam no longer heard the droning sounds.”
     “What?”
     “Your ship! You can't leave it here. This is a no parking zone. Move it now, or face fines and penalty.”
     “Wait! I am an emissary from the planet Earth!” Sam reached awkwardly for his banner and display screen, losing his balance slightly and ending up holding the banner tightly against his body tucked under one arm while displaying the screen at an angle with the other hand.
     “I don't care if you're from Galactic Prime, you can't leave your ship here...” The aliens'  forward eye focused on the viewscreen, pupil shrinking like a camera lens, and watched Sam's animated journey from Earth play out. “Wait. Do you mean you're the FIRST emissary from Earth? You mean you're from a planet with no treaties or trade agreements?”
     “That's right, and on behalf of the humans of the planet Earth, Moon, Mars, and...”
     “Stop right there.” The alien regarded him for a long moment. “I am not prepared, nor am I compelled to initiate first contact protocols with a primitive culture. What you should do is go to the planetary treaty enforcement office. They will formally recognize your culture and begin trade negotiations.” As the alien “spoke” a map of the city appeared in Sam's mind, with the treaty enforcement office highlighted. As he continued, another location stood out. “Right now, you may place your ship in this depot. You are hereby granted Indigent Status.” At this point, the alien's voice grew distinctly bored. “As an Indigent, you have certain rights. No other sentient being bay force you to work against your will. No one may coerce you to enter into any business agreement or contract. You may use all public facilities free of charge, however you must pay to use any private facilities. You are entitled to have a type 1 neural translator Net provided to you. Your Net reports that you understand these rights. Do you have any questions?” The alien paused for one half second. “Then follow your instructions and move your vehicle, now.”
     The alien turned away and Sam “heard” it say, “Clear the area! Any sentient being who does not clear this area will be charged with obstructing commerce. “ An image of the roundabout with a 100 meter circle around Sam's ship suddenly appeared in Sam's mind with the phrase “By Order of Treaty Enforcement” under it.
     The remaining aliens began moving rapidly away from the ship. After hesitating a moment, Sam tuned and went back inside. It had not been what he expected.
     As he sat back down at the controls, his spirits began to lift. It wasn't what he had expected but he had established contact with the galactic civilization. Apparently there was some kind of civil authority, and recognition of rights. He also now had a clear direction to go and path to follow. The went through the take-off check list and hit the thrusters. His ship, the Hope, began to rise. The second dust cloud was nowhere near as dense as the first, though still impressive. Traffic did not have to stop.
     The field of parked ships not nearly as large as Sam expected. There were only a few dozen craft. For the most part, they were on the same scale as Sam's with just one gigantic craft, eerily resembling the Hindenburg,  sitting at the far end of the lot. He climbed down from the ship, once again carrying his standard and display screen. He hesitated for just a moment before actually setting  his foot on the surface of the planet. But, there was no one there to see him this time, and it seemed unlikely that even the images taken by the ship's camera would be seen on Earth before he returned.
     There were sidewalks between the parking area made of a slightly spongy material which had been unmarked by the ship's rocket blast. He followed the sidewalk to a long, low building which had a flat roof and apparently no doors or windows. As Sam approached, an opening appeared in the side of the building. He stepped inside. He found himself blinking in a dark room that seemed to be lit by a black light. Parts of the trim on Sam's uniform and his shoes were fluorescing. There was a large creature that looked rather like a dust mite sitting behind a clear wall on the other side of the room. Sam guessed its compound eyes must see in the near ultraviolet.
     “I am from the planet Earth,” Sam said to the creature, “I am on my way to the Treaty Enforcement Office.”
     The response from the creature sounded like a car with a bad engine trying to start. It made a wiggle with its entire body that he was completely unable to interpret. Sam ran his fingers though his hair, making sure the neural net was still in place. He felt a slight tingling in his fingertips and the words “System Check Successful”  appeared before his eyes. He tried again.
     “I need to leave my ship here.” He said slowly and loudly.
     Again the creature responded with the stalled engine sounds, these too were delivered more slowly and loudly. A small, rectangular piece of the clear wall suddenly fluoresced yellow, matching Sam's sneakers. It separated from the wall and floated towards Sam. He took it. The alien made one last set of noises, and suddenly the glass wall turned opaque and it disappeared from view.
     He put the rectangle, which was surprisingly flexible, into his pocket. Then he strode purposefully towards the wall he had come in through, expecting the exit to reappear. It did not. He bumped painfully into a solid wall, dropping his display screen. The wall hiding the alien again became clear. This time, its noises were deafening. A door appeared in the opposite wall. Embarrassed, Sam picked up his viewscreen and walked out.
     He paused to take stock. There was a bench next to the door, and Sam sate down on it. It suddenly heaved and threw him to the ground. He realized that the “bench” had two oddly human looking eyes. It flashed a brilliant checkerboard of colors at him and stumped off on six short legs that ended in rounded feet.
     “Sorry!” he called out after it, but there was no response. Things were not going well. The neural net was either not working or did not really provide universal communication. Still, he could see on the mental display the direction and distance he had to travel to reach the Office. He decided that he would not attempt any more communications. He would simply walk straight there and present himself to whatever authorities existed.
     With his banner over one shoulder and his display under the other arm, he set off. Along the way, he was struck again by the similarities to the shops and boulevards back on Earth. He passed what appeared to be a narcotics emporium like one would find in any big city back home. Aliens lay on couches or on the floor or hung from hooks in the ceiling, nearly unmoving. The logo looked amazingly like the Dooby Dog logo.
     About three miles into the city, he stopped. Here was a store that looked exactly like a Taco Bell. The ringing bell logo was identical. What the patrons were eating, however, bore no resemblance to Mexican food, even less than the real Taco Bell restaurants did. He went into this restaurant but again could not communicate with any of the patrons. The alien behind the counter, which  resembled a filing cabinet, watched him but did not attempt to communicate. He marched out again, more determined than ever to make it to the Treaty Office.
     Finally, he arrived at one of the tallest buildings in the city. It was roughly a mile and a half high. The words “Treaty Enforcement Office” ran vertically down the side. It appeared to be English. Sam was struck by a sudden idea. Looking up at the building, he removed his neural net. The words disappeared, and the building became a featureless rectangle. He put the net back on, and after a moment or two, the words reappeared. So, the neural net wasn't just a translator, it could actually plant virtual images in his mind that were indistinguishable from reality. He shook his head. How could he accomplish his mission if he couldn't even tell what was real? 'As best I can,' was the only answer he could come up with. He went inside.
     The lobby was a huge open rectangle with one tall column in the center. The ceiling was a projection of the sky above the building. This created the illusion that the column tapered upwards to infinity. Aliens were entering the lobby, walking over to the column, then walking over to squares on the checkerboard floor. Each square was either a black circle in a white square or white circle in a black square. An alien would stand on a square and then disappear. He stared at this seemingly magical spectacle as aliens crowded past him. After about 15 minutes, he noticed an alien reappear on the same square it has disappeared from. That alien then calmly walked back out of the building.
     Sam walked slowly towards the infinitely tall column and looked upwards at it. What was he supposed to do? How could he find out who to talk to? Suddenly, a name and a location appeared in glowing blue letters on the side of the column: Gorbitor, Level 500. A series of blue dots appeared one after another, leading from the name on the column to one of the black and white squares on the floor, which began flashing inversely, first a white circle in a black square, then a black circle in a white square. Sam followed the dots, stepped on the square and disappeared. With absolutely no sense of movement or elapsed time, he found himself in a small room with a very large alien. Disoriented, he lost hold of the standard, and it began to fall towards the alien. He caught it again, awkwardly, but not before the alien threw six thick arms up, covering its body reflexively.
     “Be careful!” it shouted.
     “Sorry,” Sam said, straightening up himself and the banner.
     “Wait a moment.” The creature Sam assumed was Gorbitor drew the tips of short furry tentacles across some floating display screens in front of it. The room expanded and a long table appeared between Sam and Gorbitor with a chair on Sam's side. Sam laid his standard down on the table, set his viewscreen in front of the chair, and sat down.
     “'Sorry',” said Gorbitor, “that word doesn't translate. What does it mean?”
     “It means that I am feeling a negative emotion because of your discomfort. The strength of the negative feeling is stronger because I am the one causing your discomfort. I am informing you of my feeling so that you understand that there was no hostile intent, that causing you discomfort was accidental.”
     “'Sorry', What an odd emotional motivator...Never mind. It's unimportant. Now, the police report says you are a “human” from the planet Earth as well as Mars and the Moon.”
     “We also have colonies on several asteroids, and one of Jupiter's moons, Europa.”
     “I'm sure you do. The question is, are you empowered to negotiate with the galactic Treaty Organization on behalf of your species?”
     Sam typed on a few buttons on the viewscreen. A holographic image of the seal of the World Bank appeared floating above it. This was replaced by an image of the Chair of the World Bank, the most powerful woman on or off Earth, Mai O'Brien. She stared into the camera for a moment, then began to speak, “As Chair of the organization responsible for setting global monetary policy, and with the assent of the six remaining non-receivership political states with recognized political boundaries, as well as colonial governing bodies, and the recorded assent of twelve billion of the fourteen billion humans in existence at this time, we hereby authorize Sam Melton to enter into any sort of negotiations he deems necessary with any sort of organization, group, or individual he may encounter to, arrival at, or return from the planet Leia.”   
     “Excellent. Excellent. Your Net reports that you believe this authorization to be authentic.”
     “Excuse me, but I have a question.”
     “You may ask.”
     “Why am I able to communicate with you, but not the other aliens?”
     “First of all, do not use the term “alien;” it is considered offensive. After all, 90% of the beings on this planet were spawned on other planets or in outer space. The preferred term is “sentient being.” Second, as a sentient being on a treaty protected trade planet, you are entitled to a type 1 neural Net translator. This only allows you to send and receive official information from treaty enforcement officers such as myself and the officer you met right after you landed. Other types of Net allow communication between different species.”
     “How many types of Net are there?” As he asked this, the number “27,350,612” Appeared before his eyes.
     “As you can see, any questions you have about he neural Net, you can ask the Net itself directly. Type 1 nets translate each species' communications into universal treaty language which has a limited vocabulary. Full species to species communications require more sophisticated Nets, and the complexity increases with each species added.”
     “How do I get a more sophisticated Net?”
     “You buy one. Now, let me ask you a question. What manner of propulsion did your craft use to travel here from Earth?” Sam again played the video showing his ship's journey from Earth. This time, he enlarged the image of the ship and gave a brief description of the ship's propulsion and guidance systems. “I understand,” said Gorbitor, “so your ship uses ion propulsion and can achieve velocities up to 92% of light speed. Very well. We shall prepare a probe and send it back to Earth immediately to verify your credentials.”
     “But you have my credentials.”\
     “Credentials must be verified. It's true that you believe them to be true, but you may be irrational. Your geopolitical situation may have changed, and your world may no longer be interested in negotiating.”
     “How long will it take the probe to deliver the message?”
     “Four years.”
     “Four years!?”
     “Yes. The same amount of time it would take your ship to make the round trip. You see, we can't send a faster than light ship to a world which does not have faster than light technology. It would interfere with your development. We will outfit a probe with ion drive and a radio wave based communications system. If you leave me your computing device, we will duplicate its technology for the probe's control system.”
     Sam grew alarmed at the idea of giving up his display screen. He reached into his pouch for his backup display. “This uses the same technology; it just has less capacity.”
     “Very well.” Gorbitor seemed disappointed. “ I will contact you using the Net when the probe returns. Please use the transport square in the corner to return to the lobby.”
     “Wait! I have more questions.”
     “I am not allowed to negotiate further until you authorization has been verified. What is the concept you used, 'sorry?' No, that doesn't describe my emotional state at all. Goodbye.” Sam picked up his standard and display screen and headed for the transport square. This time, he was not startled by the process.
     As soon as Sam left the building, he was approached by a  being that resembled a six foot tall dandelion. The end of one of its frond-like limbs seemed to be offering Sam a small piece of mesh, about two inches square. Sam took it and placed it on his scalp. He could feel the two pieces of mesh begin to intertwine. Suddenly a text box opened in Sam's vision. It had white letters on a red, rectangular background. “WARNING! Unverified neural net add on. Proceed?” He looked at the creature that was waiting, swaying slightly before him, and decided to chance it. 'Proceed,' he thought.
     “Hello human,” the being immediately said, “I saw your ship land. Do you have a name?”
     “Sam. Sam Melton.”
     “Sam Sam Melton, my name is Sporedum. I saw your ship land. I wish to help you. I want to propose a deal. You are the first of your species to contact the galactic civilization. My race has been fully engaged in the galactic economy for two hundred years. I have knowledge that could be essential to your mission. I will share that information with you for free.”
     Without consciously deciding to, Sam had begun walking as soon as Sporedum started talking. The alien being stayed close to him, occasionally touching an arm or shoulder with a frond. It seemed Sporedum must not have used lungs because it talked without pause or breath.
     “My species is known throughout the galaxy as skillful but fair traders. Did you know that there are more than 50,000 sentient species that participate in the galactic economy? This provides opportunities for great wealth in intergalactic trade. My species has six genders, five of which must cooperate for reproduction. One of my sporefathers and two of my mothers were extremely wealthy. They provided me with my ship which I use to travel the galaxy making skilled but fair trades between many different species.”
     At this point, they had reached the taco bell like restaurant. Sam looked again at the familiar sign and removed his Net, both as an experiment and to get a moment of respite from Sporedum's chatter. The logo remained unchanged. So that, at least, was not some kind of mirage. He looked at Sporedum,  silent now, but swaying back and forth animatedly and releasing little puffs of what appeared to be yellow pollen from its flower head. He was gaining valuable information listening to it, but he couldn't shake the feeling that this sentient being was not to be trusted. He had not yet had time to process what had happened at the treaty office. He needed to get back to the Hope and get his head together. But he knew that he wouldn't get the information he needed from on board his ship. He would only be able to get it, apparently, by interacting with more of these sentient beings, getting more of a sense of how they interacted with each other and with the galactic economy. He put the mesh back on his head and Sporedum's monotone again filled his consciousness.
     “...You have stopped in front of an eating establishment. Do you require food? I could purchase some for you. My species doesn't require solid food. Just sunlight, air, and water containing certain minerals. It is one of our great strengths as a species. I have been 'eating' sunlight the whole time I've been talking with you. It is one reason your species should align itself with mine. But, as I was saying, my parents gifted me with a great ship which I use to travel the galaxy. Moving amongst only the wealthiest and most powerful sentient beings. When a being achieves the highest level of wealth on the galactic scale, one can afford to indulge every whim, every fantasy. Several of my parents had that level of wealth, that is how I made connections with the clientele I now serve. I do not yet have that level of wealth, but I hope to someday. We are approaching a vehicle storage facility. Do you have a vehicle there? I saw the vehicle you landed with. Most impressive! All that flame! And the searing rocket blast! One can immediately discern that human technology is very straightforward and gets the job done!” Sam thought he detected a faint feeling of amusement from Sporedum.
     “Well, we do have other technologies and strategies of landings. For unmanned probes, for example, we often employ inflatable bags that disperse the kinetic energy of the ship by bouncing.”
     “I'm sure you do!” The communication of amusement was so strong that Sam got the impression Sporedum was actually trying not to burst out laughing. “I'm sure you do!” Sporedum repeated, “and  I want to hear about every different kind of ship and propulsion system you humans use. For, you see...” Sporedum made a dramatic pause, “I am a purveyor of primitive space vehicles.” He announced this as if it were the inevitable conclusion of some deep, philosophical argument he had been making.
     “Excuse me?”
     “I'm sorry, that didn't quite translate. Are you asking forgiveness for some kind of offense or merely asking me to repeat myself?”
     “Primarily the latter.”
     “Well, you may have both my forgiveness AND I will repeat the information. That is how generous my people are in trade negotiations. Profitable, but fair and generous. Very generous! You see, when a young race such as yours first achieves space flight, it has to develop new technologies to escape their planet's and eventually their solar system's gravity.
     “There are many different ways to accomplish this, and each species approaches the problem in a unique way. Many enlightened and wealthy sentient beings believe that a species' first interstellar vehicle represents the highest technological and aesthetic achievement of that species. For, after that, they are forever influenced by the larger galactic cultures. So, there is a great demand among the elite for primitive interstellar spaceships. Oh, don't let me delay you. You wish to return to your ship. Let us go in.”     
     Under the black light inside the shipyard building, Sporedum took on a truly psychedelic appearance. His fronds and flower head actually pulsed with waves of fluorescent colors that made Sam's head spin. When the gigantic dust mite spoke, this time Sam “heard,” “Hey Sporedum! What are you doing with this stupid alien?”
     “How dare you use that disrespectful tone with my associate!” Sporedum said immediately and forcefully. “He wishes to return to his ship. I will pay his parking fee.” Sporedum turned to Sam, “You do still have the ticket, don't you?”
     Sam pulled the ticket out of his pocket. Sporedum took it and waved a small metallic sphere over it. The ticket became clear again and floated out of Sporedum's grasp to reattach itself to the wall. The opening reappeared on the lot side of the building. 
     “Thank you,” Sam said to Sporedum as they exited. “What did you do, there?”
     “This sphere is a communications link to the interstellar bank where I store my credits. Using my Net, I authorized the transfer of some of my credits to the corporation that owns the spaceport. Enough to pay for the parking fees for your ship. However I did NOT authorize any extra payment for the attendant as is sometimes done. That sentient being's attitude was far too rude, in my opinion. It referred to you an an 'alien' and made insulting suggestions about your species' level of intelligence.
     “I have only been communicating with you for a short time, but I can already tell that you, and I assume, your species are highly intelligent and observant. I can tell that if we enter into any kind of business negotiations, it will require all my skill and intelligence. I have found that my best hope in dealing with as quick witted a sentient being as yourself is to be as open and honest as possible, and hope that your species has some sense of fairness, realizing that establishing mutually beneficial transactions can have future benefits. Otherwise, I confess, I have been taken advantage of many times. I have concluded deals poorer rather than wealthier. It is one of the reasons that I am having so many problems assembling a mating group.
     “So, I would like to make another gesture of good will between our peoples. I will give you an account token of your own. You will need this to make any kind of transactions. It is an essential element for participating in the galactic economy.”
     “Thank you again, Sporedum.”
     “There is no need to thank me!” Sporedum's tone was suddenly curt, very different from the deferential tone he had been using. “For one thing, by giving you a token from my bank, I will receive a commission when you open an account.” Sporedum lapsed back into a more pleasant voice, “For another, I hope to do business with you, soon, in a way that will benefit both of us.”
     They had reached the base of the Hope. Sporedum held out a sphere identical to the one he had used earlier. As Sam took it, a display appeared before his field of vision. It said, “Galactic Bank 2001. Access recognized for sentient being Sam Melton. Open new account?”
     'Yes,' Sam thought. A new display appeared.
     “Welcome, sentient being Sam Melton, to Galactic Bank 2001. Your account has 0 credits.”
     “There,” said Sporedum, “Welcome to the galactic economy. Shall we go?”
     “Go?” asked Sam.
     “To your ship, of course,Surely a vehicle as powerful as this one can carry an extra passenger. I weigh 45 kilograms.”
     “Well, yes, it CAN carry you, but...”
     “I understand. Even at this early stage, you demonstrate your species' shrewdness in negotiation. Very well, I will pay you 10,000 credits for a ride in this shuttle to your main spaceship.” Sporedum held out his token and a new display appeared before Sam.
     “Proposed Transaction: Transfer of 10,000 credits from sentient being Sporedum to sentient being Sam Melton in exchange for passage to Melton's space ship in orbit around planet Leia. Approved?”
     Sam's head was swimming. So much had happened and none of it was what he had anticipated. This “sentient being” wanted to go back to the ship with him, as if it were the most natural thing in the world, and perhaps in the culture on this world, it was. Everything here seemed to revolve around commerce and he was just beginning to get an idea of how that worked, thanks to Sporedum. But he was still a long ways from being able to survive, here. There had been some kind of charge for parking the Hope. If Sporedum had not been there to pay, what would have happened? Probably he would have been prevented from returning to his ship until he had gotten enough credits, but how could he have done that? Somehow he didn't think that Gorbitor validated parking. He would be dangerously dependent on Sporedum for information, but he also seemed to be limited in his ability to communicate with anyone else.
     Sporedum was completely silent now, only swaying slightly, hypnotically, waiting patiently. He wanted to buy the ship. There was no way that was going to happen. It was Sam's only way back to Earth and it looked like it would have to be his home base for at least the next four years. How would Sporedum react if he came to the ship, they negotiated, and there was no deal? Would he become threatening or violent? Finally Sam spoke, “I would have to scan you, to make sure you weren't carrying anything dangerous.”
     “Yes,” Sporedum replied simply and immediately, spreading out his fronds as if to capture more sunlight. Sam took his scanner out of his pouch.
     “This device emits electromagnetic radiation across most of the spectrum, at very low levels, hardly above background.”  
     “You may scan me. My species is not harmed by electromagnetic radiation.” But when Sam started the scan, Sporedum started to convulse. “It tickles!” he exclaimed. Sam learned very little of use from the scan. Sporedum was structured very much like a dandelion on Earth, except that he had more internal structures that were composed mostly of a cartilage like protein. His innermost layer of cells were a dense networked of linked cells and protein, spread throughout his body. So Sporedum had no brain, but lots of nerves.
     “My scanner can't penetrate your pack. I'm going to have to ask you to empty it.”
     “You want me to empty my purse? Here, on the ground?”
     “Yes.”
     “You humans have some very strange customs.” Sporedum emptied his bag onto the ground, then turned it inside out for good measure. As he put each item in turn back in, he described its purpose and demonstrated it, if possible. There were several packets of the minerals Sporedum needed to survive, “A whole year's worth!” he boasted. He also carried a surprising number of personal grooming  devices such as petal smoothers and leaf shiners. There were also many different bank tokens with many different designs. Then there was a black and silver cylinder that Sporedum described as a “personal cutting tool.” He turned it on and a brilliant cylinder of plasma about four inches long and rounded at the end erupted from the end with a whooshing sound. There was a slight humming noise as Sporedum waved it back and forth.
     “You'll have to leave that,” Sam said.
     “Here? It will be destroyed by your rocket blast. It's a perfectly functional device. Perfectly safe, I assure you.”
     “I'm sorry, you may not bring that on my ship.”
     “Why don't you take it, then? Another gift.”
     Sam had a growing sense that Sporedum's gifts all had strings attached. Nevertheless, he took the plasma knife. Its technology was beyond Earth's.  He would study it.
     The final item in the bag was a sheet of thin material, folded over many times in a packet about twelve inches square. “What's that?” Sam asked.
     “That is how I plan to return from your ship.” Sporedum unfolded the material and laid it on the ground. It was about five feet square and had the same circle in a square pattern as the tiles in the lobby of the treaty building. “This is a quantum teleportation square. It's large enough to teleport from orbit.”
     “How does it work?”
     “I don't know all the technical details, but it records an image of every atom and electron in your body in an instant. It has atoms stored inside to atoms that are quantumly linked to atoms in other transporters. So, it simultaneously destroys your body at one transporter, then sends it as an energy signal that is recreated at the other. It's the same principle as a communicator.”
     “You mean your transportation and communication technology are based on quantum linking of atoms?”
     “That's right.”
     That's why Sara had been unable to detect any emissions from orbit. There were none. While humans were using radio waves, the other races in the galaxy were using atoms. “Naturally,” Sporedum continued, “the fidelity you need to transport matter is much higher than you need for simple communication. Your Net can communicate halfway across the galaxy, but matter transporters need to be bigger, the further you're trying to move something. Here. Try it. Step on the pad and think about the roundabout.”
     Sam did as he was told, and just like at the treaty building, found himself instantly at the roundabout. He pictured himself back at the Hope. His Net very briefly flashed the words “Destination Accepted,” and he was back with Sporedum. He tried not to show it, but he was awed by this casual demonstration of galactic technology.
     “How much fuel does your landing ship carry?” Sporedum asked.
     “Enough for perhaps  ten round trips, depending on how much cargo is carried.”
     “I will leave this device on your ship. Then you will be able to come and go as often as you need to.” Sporedum folded the transport pad back up.
     Sam realized he didn't really have a choice. If he was going to stay on this planet for four years and learn enough about galactic society to help Earth, he would need to be able to come and go without having to burn his limited fuel or pay for parking fees without credits he didn't have. “Alright Sporedum, let's go.” Sam's visual display flashed 'Transfer complete. Account balance 10,000 credits.' They climbed the ramp back into the Hope. Sam put his banner back in its receptacle, sat at the control panel, and opened a communication link with Sarah. “Sarah, did you get all that?”
     “All recording devices are functioning normally. All data and images have been transmitted to Earth.”
     'For all the good it will do,' thought Sam. He turned to Sporedum and said, “We will experience about 4G's of acceleration during our ascent. Can your body withstand that much stress?”
     Sporedum laid flat on the floor of the spaceship, looking so much like a weed someone had pulled up and left laying in a driveway that Sam shook his head and rubbed his eyes. “Proceed,” Sporedum said.
     As soon as the rockets began to thunder underneath them, Sporedum began a continuous scream that continued for the entire liftoff. Sam found he could turn down the “volume” of his communications enough to concentrate on the ship's control panel. Once the Hope achieved orbit, Sporedum quickly regained his composure and resumed his almost non-stop patter. “What an experience!” He exclaimed as the Hope was docking with Sarah, “My clients will be thrilled! Just a straight overpowering of gravity using chemical rockets. Who would have thought such a system would even work! Just ten minutes later and we're in orbit. Amazing! What kind of fuel does this vehicle use?”
     “Liquid hydrogen and oxygen. How do other races get into orbit?”
     “Most other species take advantage of atmospheric pressure in some way to gain altitude before beginning to use thrust. The force of gravity diminishes as the square of the distance from the planet, as your species must know.” Sporedum's mental “voice” again had amused undertones, “so the further you get from the planet's surface, the less power you will need to achieve orbit.”
     Sam remembered the Hindenburg like ship at the spaceport. “So, your 'first stage' is a dirigible?”
     “That's usually how it's done, yes. Of course there are other techniques.”
     Sam thought about the years of research and development that had been needed to develop the Hope, a rocket that could make ten round trips with only a tiny fraction of the fuel of an old Saturn V. Now, it appeared they would have been better off just tying a balloon to it. How many other aspects of human culture and technology would he discover were so fundamentally backwards?
     Once aboard the ship, Sporedum was a seemingly inexhaustible source of compliments and exclamations. He praised every device and display that Sam showed him on a brief tour of the ship. When they came to the tanning booth, Sporedum paused. “I would like to spend some time in this booth. My species is not normally as ambulatory as I have been today. I need to stand still and absorb light for some time.” Sporedum went into the booth and closed the door.
     A great rush of air escaped from Sam's lungs, as if he had been holding his breath the entire time he was with Sporedum. Finally alone! He went directly over to the main console interface with Sara to make his initial landing report. He had Sara play back the recordings of the mission and quickly realized that, of course, the cameras and microphones he had been outfitted with had captured the images and sounds of his interactions with the other sentient beings, but none of the meaning. What he had heard mentally as speech was recorded as unintelligible grunts or other noises. He began to record a narration of what had happened to him on the planet, voicing over the sounds the other beings had made. But, the mental and physical stress of what he had been through must have exhausted him because he was suddenly woken up by Sporedum prodding him in the ribs.
     “Human, are you functioning?”
     Sam stood up. “Yes, I'm fine!”
     “You were sending some very strange images. Are you rational?”
     “What sort of images?”
     “You were flying above a field filled with millions of my people, but they were tiny, only about a third of a meter tall. You were wearing equipment your people must use to operate under water, flippers and oxygen tanks. You were flying, with no means of propulsion. The flower heads were turning to follow you whichever direction you flew. Then the flower stalks began to grow taller and the flower heads came closer and closer to you. It was very disturbing. That's when I decided to poke you.”
     “I had fallen asleep. My Net must have broadcast my dreams to you.” Sam gave Sporedum a brief explanation of sleep and its biological purposes. Sporedum was silent for some time.
     “Your people spend a third of your lives in this hallucinatory condition? That is very unusual. In the future, tell your Net to cease transmitting before you enter this state. Now, if you are done sleeping, we have much to do.”
     There began very intense weeks of interaction with Sporedum. He was a non-stop font of information about the galactic society and economy. He would tell Sam something which Sam then repeated to the computer, since there was no way to link Sara directly to Sam's Net. Sarah would then include the new information in her broadcasts back to Earth. Sam learned many details about the galactic economic elite. All worth “many billions of credits” according to Sporedum. Keeping track of that group's activities seemed to be an obsession with Sporedum. He told Sam where they originated, how they mated, how they had amassed their wealth, and a thousand other details.
     Interspersed with tales of the rich and famous, Sporedum told Sam about his own life story. As a youth, several of Sporedum's parents had been extremely wealthy “...from the sale of certain goods,” but those credits had been used up maintaining an expensive lifestyle and traveling all over the galaxy. Sporedum's ship was one of the last large purchases they were able to make before dying. Sporedum's race, the Pisen, lived about 100 years. Sporedum was about 65. He had once started to form a mating group with two other Pisens, but they had broken up over “philosophical differences” before they could attract members of the three other genders needed for reproduction. In fact, Sporedum spent many hours complaining about one of those mates, a sentient being named Chlorophyll, who had many annoying habits. She would place herself in the most advantageous light positions, shading the others. Sometimes she would leave half used nutrient packets laying about the spaceship.
     Sam listened to all of it, paying as close attention as he could, trying to absorb as much knowledge as possible. Sporedum did not seem to need any rest, continuing to talk even when in the light booth or absorbing nutrients. Sam, however, became seriously sleep deprived, averaging only about 3 hours a night. It turned out that Sporedum's race had evolved on a tidally locked planet, with the same side always facing the sun.
     They developed a message display using a tablet computer which allowed  Sporedum to communicate with Sara. It was based on a touch screen and used symbols set in squares. At first, Sporedum was only able to use it for simple tasks such as turning on the light boot or heating his nutrient soups to just the right temperature. Gradually, Sporedum convinced Sam to add more commands to the touch screen, and even create a simple programming language that would string commands together.
     Sporedum also slowly turned the conversation more and more often to the idea of the sale of the ship. At first, Sam was able to put these inquiries off by asking for more details about some aspect of galactic culture. But Sporedum inevitably brought the conversation back to the idea of a sale. Sporedum's first offer was for 600 million credits. Sam refused. Sporedum actually praised for being a shrewd negotiator and came back with an offer of 700 million credits. Dozens of times, Sam's Net displayed “Proposed transaction: Sale of spaceship belonging to Sam Melton...” with ever increasing numbers of credits proposed. Sam refused them all.
     Finally, after three weeks of cat and mouse, Sporedum's offer reached 8 billion credits. “That,” said Sporedum, “is all that I have to offer. I cannot expect to earn much more than that on the sale. If you do not sell, all the ways in which I have helped you: paying for your parking; paying you to fly me up here; giving you priceless information about galactic culture...all of that will have benefited you and gained me nothing. I do not begrudge you this. It is the cost of doing business. Every potential profit has risks. But in this time together, I had hoped we had forged a deep bond, established a friendship between your young race and my more experienced race. The decision is yours, now, but I must tell you that if you refuse this offer, I must leave you and pursue other business opportunities.” Once again, the proposed transaction appeared before Sam's eyes, and once again Sporedum went into his silent, waiting pose.
     This time, Sam actually began to sweat. “Sporedum,” he said at last, “it's not so much that I am unwilling to sell. It's that I need this ship and its resources to survive for the next four years. Then, I'll need it to get back to Earth after I've negotiated a trade agreement.”
     “Real negotiation, after all this time! Human, I was beginning to believe that there would be no deal. But, your concerns are unfounded. They are based on your inexperience with galactic culture. First of all, your return to Earth is a very simple matter. You simply make your return to Earth in a faster than light vessel one of the preconditions for negotiations. With a faster than light ship, you can return home the same day you conclude the treaty. It is not unusual for negotiators in your situation to stipulate that they receive a ship of their own or any manner of goods or services if they can be in any way related to the negotiation. The Treaty Organization has almost unimaginable resources.  I envy you. Negotiators often become extremely personally wealthy through such stipulations. You could become one of the elite in the galaxy. The lucrative sale of your ship could be the first step in that direction.
     “The second problem is also not truly a problem. My buyers are very patient. They do not need my product, they desire it. So, they can wait. While you sell me your ship, today, I could take possession of it four years from now, after your trade negotiations begin.”
     There it was. All his concerns neatly addressed. Perhaps too neatly. Somewhere, buried deeply in Sam's psyche was still a seed of doubt. “Sixteen billion!” He heard himself say, “or I will ask you to leave so that I can pursue other opportunities.” 
     This time it was Sam's turn to wait for a response. Sporedum hesitated, but when he finally “spoke” Sam again sensed that undertone of amusement. “I don't know how you've done it, human. Almost, I wonder if you've found some way to intercept my personal communications with my purchasers. That is the exact amount I had as my real maximum offer. Done. Now, unless you find it offensive, I would like to conclude this agreement following a custom of my people. Please extend your hand.” Uncertainly, Sam extended his hand. Sporedum wrapped a leathery frond around it and pumped it up and down several times. “There!” Sporedum exclaimed with satisfaction.
     'Transaction Completed,' flashed on Sam's Net display. 'New balance: 16,000,010,000 credits.'
     Now that the deal was finally done, Sam felt almost giddy. He shook Sporedum's frond several more times. “Thank you, again, Sporedum! You're a Godsend. I don't know what I would have done without you!”
     “Again, no thanks are necessary!” Sporedum's tone was once again suddenly sharp. “This was a business transaction. Purely business. I tried to make the best deal I could, just as you did. Please do not continue to invoke your religious deity.”
     “Still, Sporedum, you have my gratitude and when the story of our race's first contact with galactic culture is told, your name will appear prominently.”
     “That is completely unnecessary. I would ask that it not be so. I am a very minor businessbeing in the galactic economy. I only desire to earn the credits I need to live my life.
     “You spoke of your race. Tell me more about them. Perhaps once you have signed the treaty and joined the galactic culture, I will visit there and seek more business deals. I could see there being a great demand, a niche market, for these orbital rockets you use. There are several races I can think of that take great pleasure in taking unnecessary risks.”
     “Well, things on Earth were very difficult when I left. I guess we used a lot of primitive technologies that we shouldn't have. Our planet is struggling with pollutants that were introduced into our biosphere more than 200 years ago. We have vast oceans, but in most areas they have become too acidic to support multi-cellular life. We have seven continents, but large areas on each are uninhabitable because of an overly hot climate and intense weather events.
     “We have made incredible advances in our current technologies. For energy we now rely mostly on wind, solar, and geothermal sources, but even these have some ecological impact. Our population has peaked at about 10 billion. Another 4 billion live on other planets or satellites in our system, but it is becoming increasingly difficult for our home planet's culture to survive.
     One kind of trade that we would be very interested in would be planetary restoration. Are there available technologies in the galactic economy for removing excess carbon dioxide from an atmosphere? We have tried several geoengineering techniques, but each has failed. In fact, each time we've tried to reduce CO2 levels, we've ended up increasing them. Sometimes, locally, CO2 levels exceed 9 parts per million and people have to use artificial means to breath.”
     “CO2 levels at 9 parts per million? That sounds wonderful to me. But, your race is in distress? This changes everything! Under the terms of the treaty this entitles you to expedited negotiations! Yes, there are technologies available that could set your planet's atmosphere to whatever gas ratios you desire. I might be able to broker a deal, myself. But, you must follow a very specific protocol to qualify. As you can imagine, every race wants expedited negotiations. You could start negotiating tomorrow, if your application is accepted, not years from now. But do not contact Gorbitor, yet. Your application must be carefully prepared. I have business contacts on the planet below who know precisely how to request expedition under the treaty. Let us go visit them! We can leave immediately. I'll go with you so that they do not attempt to charge you too much. There will be a very small fee for my services. Gather what you need! Be sure to bring your credentials. I'll pack a few things. Let us meet at the pad in five minutes!”
     Sam's head was swimming. After weeks of what seemed like purgatory, things were suddenly moving at lightning speed. Expedited negotiations! And a chance to obtain a faster than light ship. He grabbed his satchel and tablet. Then he ran to stores to grab a second tablet to replace the one he had given to Gorbitor. He also threw in some extra rations. Who knew how long negotiations would take?
     “Sara!” Sam called out, “I am about to make a planetary excursion. I will not be using the Hope. Begin remote monitoring now, and continue after I arrive at the initial landing site in approximately five minutes.”
     “Instructions accepted, Sam. Have a nice trip.” Sam smiled. The little personality touches the programmers had given Sara really did make things easier.
     He made his way to the main dining area. Sporedum was already there, wearing his travel pouch. The travel pad was laid out on the floor. “Excellent!” Sporedum exclaimed, “You go first, I have to make a few minor adjustments to the pad after you transport to ensure a smooth return.”
     Sam stepped on the pad and instantly found himself blinking in the bright sunlight of the roundabout. He stepped off the pad to give Sporedum room to come through. He was concerned when Sporedum didn't instantly materialize behind him. Then he remembered Sporedum had said he needed to make a few “minor adjustments” and settled back to wait. The usual throngs of hurried sentient beings were passing all around him. The thought suddenly occurred to Sam that Sporedum might not materialize on the same pad. The problem was that the roundabout was covered with hundreds of pads and beings were constantly appearing and disappearing on them. He moved to the edge of the roundabout to get a better view of all the pads. More time passed. Still no Sporedum. Finally, he took out his radio communicator and hailed Sara.
     “Sara.”
     “Yes, Sam.”
     “Status report. Is Sporedum still on board?”
     “Yes, Sam. Status: Orbital departure engine firing initiated. Accelerating away from planet Leia at approximately 500 meters per second per second. Loss of radio contact in approximately one minute.”
     “WHAT?!”
     “Status: Orbital departure engine firing initiated...”
     “Sara! Cease engine firing! Return to orbit.”
     “I'm sorry, Sam. Sporedum has initiated security protocol over rides. His orders have superior command authority.”
     “How the Hell did he do that?! I never showed him those protocols. SPOREDUM!” Sam shouted both physically and mentally with all the energy he could muster. A message appeared before Sam's eyes.
     'The sentient being, Sporedum, has blocked all communications with you.'
     Sam leaped onto a transport block, picturing the ship in his mind. Another message appeared.
     'That destination has been deactivated.'
     “Twenty seconds to loss of signal,” Sara's voice came through on the Com.
     “Sara! Send a message!”
     “Communication with Star Command discontinued on Sporedum's command authority.”
     “Continue mission summary broadcasts to the Aricebo array. Send Message.”Betrayed! Don't trust the dandelions!”
     “Acknowledged. Goodbye, Sa...”
     “Gorbitor!” Sam sent an urgent mental hail.
     'Yes, human.'
     'My ship has been stolen by a sentient being called Sporedum! Am I protected under treaty? Can you get my ship back?'
     'Sporedum? Let me research this...The Net reports that you sold your ship to him for 16 billion credits. Was this a different ship?'
     'No, it's my only ship, but he wasn't supposed to take possession of it for four years!'
     'No such provision is recorded in the transaction. Unless you see a provision displayed by your net in the proposed transaction, it is merely a point of negotiation. I am required to inform you of this before we begin treaty negotiations.
     'However, I am not required to provide you with any sort of assistance before your credentials are verified and negotiations begin.'
     'But, what am I supposed to do? I have no ship, no food, or resources.'
     'I would advise you not to break any trade regulations. Although you are not yet protected by the trade regulations, since you are on a treaty planet, you are subject to them. Do not contact me again, except for matters pertaining directly to the negotiations.'
     “Wait!” Sam cried, “Expedited negotiations! If my race is in distress, isn't it possible to expedite negotiations? Start them before the credentials arrive?”
     'No. First credentials are verified, then negotiations begin. There is no way to expedite the process.' Gorbitor broke contact, and now Sam truly was alone. No ship. No way to communicate with Earth. No possessions except for what he had managed to throw in his pack.
     Aliens continued to appear and disappear on the pads around him. The sun started setting behind the mile high buildings, and Sam felt a chill. His astronaut training kicked in. Food, water, and shelter. He had to secure these, immediately. He moved away from the transport pads, and found a quiet area under a staircase. Sorting through hid meager belongings, he came across his bank token. Of course! He had credits! That put a new light on things. Now that he had credits, he should be able to simply buy what he needed. He made his way back to the Taco Bell-like restaurant.
     Sam strode in as confidently as he could and walked up to the counter. “I would like to order some food.”
     “Is that why you came into a restaurant? I'm amazed.” a blinking text box that said 'Sarcasm detected' appeared briefly in Sam's vision. “What type of sentient being are you?” asked the creature who resembled a filing cabinet.
     “Human, from the planet Earth.”
     “Really? Your Net says that you're a Pisen. Not that it matters. On your Net, you should now see our human menu.”
     What appeared before Sam's eyes, however were the words 'Human. Earth. A thousand pardons while we retrieve your species' menu from our archives.” Sam was about to say something when a menu appeared before his eyes. It looked very much like a taco bell menu. It actually included a bean and cheese burrito. There were also hamburgers and fries. But, he noted, no lettuce, tomato or onions were offered. There were foods that could be reproduced chemically, but nothing fresh or living. Then he noticed the numbers next to the food items.
     “Excuse me, but what are those numbers next to the list of foods on my menu.”
     “Those are the prices.” The being spoke slowly, as if to a toddler.
     “Twelve million credits for a hamburger with fries?”
     “If you don't like our prices, you're free to go elsewhere. But, this is about the cheapest food in the city.”
     Sam felt a chill grip his heart. Sixteen billion credits was only about a year's worth of meals, maybe two years if he went on starvation rations. That left nothing for lodging. Sporedum had tricked him, again. All that weeping and wailing about paying out so much, but Sam had ended up selling his ship for a pittance.
     “Do you have 12 million credits or are you playing some kind of alien game with me?” asked the filing cabinet.
     Stung by the insult and the implications, Sam said, “Hamburger and fries with a chocolate shake.” A large machine behind the counter began to hum and, from a nozzle pointed downwards towards a tray, it extruded a bun followed by a patty, then ketchup and mustard and then a top bun. The nozzle shifted slightly and out came a pile of fries. Finally, it produced a cup, already full, with a straw sticking out of the top. He held out his token and 'Hamburger, shake, and fries: 15 million credits' appeared before his eyes. He carried his tray over to a table, and after making sure it really was a table, he sat down and began to eat. The hamburger tasted perfectly average. It was so typical that Sam took off his Net for a moment. All the décor on the walls and ceiling disappeared, but the burger stayed a burger and the taste stayed the same. He ate slowly, intending to stay in the restaurant as long as possible in order to figure out his next move.
     He was alone in an alien environment. He would now have to classify it as hostile. He had been tricked out of his main asset. There were rules here, but apparently few protections for individuals. He did not know what the penalties for breaking the rules would be. Part of him did not want to know, but he knew it was probably essential for surviving the next four years.
     'How can I learn the terms of these treaties?' he asked himself. Dutifully, there appeared before his eyes a virtual document entitled “Comprehensive Treaty Governing Intergalactic Trade and Commerce.” It was organized the same way he had seen many bureaucratic documents laid out on Earth. It had a table of contents, definition of terms, and many appendices. Sam's heart sank when he saw that the “document” was more than 20,000 “pages.” How could he hope to master such a document, even in four years? Another message appeared, 'Direct input to long term memory authorized? Some loss of previously stored memories may occur.'
     Sam stopped chewing his burger. Apparently the Net could directly rewire his brain, planting information, even memories at the possible cost of his actual memories. It was tempting. In a moment he could master a 20,000 page document which seemed to control everything on this planet including, possibly, his own fate. But, his experience with Sporedum had made him suspicious. Whenever something seemed quick and easy, it had turned out to be a terrible mistake. He declined. He would try to make sense of the treaty on his own.
     He started with the section on indigents, that is what his legal status apparently was. He quickly discovered that there were many penalties for “obstructing commerce.” Most of the penalties were fines, percentages of a sentient being's net worth. Fines could range from a fraction of a percent all the way up to 99%. There didn't seem to be any appeal or legal procedures for the imposition of a fine. All the rules said, “On Treaty Officer's determination...” In addition to fines, there was an array of punishments from loss of physical assets through “involuntary labor.” Did that mean 'slavery' wondered Sam? As soon as he had completed that thought, all the references to “involuntary labor” in the document changed to the word “slavery.” For the most serious infractions, the ultimate penalty was seizure of a race's home planet by the treaty organization.
     “Obstructing Commerce” seemed to describe a multitude of offenses. One could obstruct commerce by being excessively noisy, or too brightly colored, or displaying irrational behavior, even sitting too long in an eating establishment.
     He looked up at the filing cabinet being behind the counter. It was regarding him with a mixture of suspicion and disapproval. He knew this because his Net was displaying the words 'SUSPICION' and 'DISAPPROVAL' in flashing letters above it. Sam hurriedly finished his food. When he set the empty cup down, the tray began to float up in the air as the parking ticket had. “Wait!” he said to the tray, grabbing on to it with one hand and taking the cup with the other. The material the cup was made from resembled paper, but he could crumple it, and it returned to its original shape without creasing or tearing. It also seemed to be perfectly smooth and clean on the inside, no trace of the chocolate shake remained.
     “Can I keep the cup?” he asked the sentient being behind the counter.
     “Can I get some water in it to go?”
     “10,000 credits.” Another expense he had to meet with his meager resources. He filled the cup and set out of the restaurant. He stood for a moment on the sidewalk in front of the restaurant, slung his  bag over his shoulder, planted his standard on the ground and, holding it firmly with one hand, he planted the other hand firmly on his hip. He stuck his chin out at a jaunty angle. He was still on a mission of exploration. He had already succeeded in something no human had ever done before. He had reached an alien planet. He would continue his mission, collect data, explore this new world, and return that information to Earth, somehow, some way.
     The filing cabinet-like creature trundled out of the restaurant. “Have a good evening,” he said to it. It responded with a meaningless series of beeps and trundled away. Sam went back into the restaurant. There was now a creature that looked alarmingly like the Pillsbury dough boy behind the counter. “Excuse me,” Sam said, “That sentient being who was here earlier. Our Nets communicated before, but not now. What happened?”
     “Welcome Sam Melton! A returning customer! Would you like another hamburger, shake and fries?”
     “Not right now, thank you. Can you answer my question?”
     “Yes. Susan was using her work Net, which is almost universal, as I am now. Work Nets usually have to be turned in at the end of the work shift. Your Net is for Pisen, which is very rare. The average personal Net does not have that race's language encoded in it.”
     “I understand. May I ask you some more questions?”
     “You may, until or unless another customer enters the restaurant. Then, unless you purchase something, you will have to leave or face obstruction of commerce charges.”
     “How did you get this job? How much does it pay, and is this restaurant hiring?”
     “You want to join the taco bell-like restaurant family? That is wonderful! We always welcome new members. As you can see, I've uploaded the standard taco bell-like restaurant employment contract to your Net. All you have to do is assent, and your wonderful adventure as a taco bell-like restaurant family member will begin. I, personally, have been a part of this family for 22 years. I started on my home planet of Alpha Centauri 3. Pay is something that we may not discuss. It is considered a trade secret under Treaty and revealing it to you would cost me 20% of my net worth. Would you like to be hired?”
     Sam backed away nervously, “I'd like to review the contract, first.”
     “That is your right under treaty.”
     Just then, a noisy group of about ten sentient beings vaguely resembling frogs bounced into the restaurant. Sam left without being asked. Keeping the contract in his field of view, Sam made his way to a quiet side street. He sat down with his back to one of the mile high buildings and began to review the virtual “document.” The terms were color coded with “negotiable” sections in blue and “non-negotiable” sections in black. His heart sank when, in the section called standard clauses he read 'the taco bell-like employee will, for the terms of employment, upon request relocate to any restaurant on any planet or space station as needed by the taco bell-like restaurant.'
     Being forced to move all over the galaxy at the whim of a restaurant chain did not appeal to him. He decided that he had to stay on Leia at all costs in order to be there when negotiations began. The group of frog-like beings from the restaurant bounded by. One of them paused briefly near Sam and gave a little shiver. It exuded a thick green substance, seemingly from the pores of its skin. It wiped itself off with one arm and dropped the ball of glop on the ground before bounding off to rejoin its group. Sam eyed the glop with revulsion, then had a thought. He approached it, and gingerly scooped it up in his cup. It actually didn't smell too bad, something like mango. Chemical analysis using his hand held sensor from his pack showed it was slightly acidic but with large amounts of fats and proteins. There also didn't seem to be any microbes or living cells in it. Sam took a small taste. The closest flavor he could relate it to was avocado. So, there seemed to be at least one source of food that he didn't have to pay for, anyway. He closed the glop in the cup for later, wrapped himself in the animated Earth banner, and went to sleep. 
     The next morning, Sam woke with dew soaking his head. There were even droplets at the end of his eyelashes. He shook his head, unwrapped himself from the banner, and stood up. He was in a part of the City not far from one of the planet's largest rivers. A morning mist had crept up from the river between the mile high buildings to cover Sam's head and everything else with a fine sheen of water. Day one of being marooned on an alien planet. His training had prepared him for the very real possibility of being marooned. He knew that one key to staying sane was to set long term goals. Working towards those goals was what would fill his days over the years to come. How many years? A sudden panic gripped him. “Gorbitor,” he said and sent, “As part of our negotiations, would I be permitted to request a faster than light ship for myself?”
     'It is not unusual for negotiations to include such a clause.'
     So Sporedum was telling the truth about that much, at least. That is the real problem with liars, sometimes they did tell the truth. So, at least he had a firm date for the end of his abandonment. He had to survive for four years. His tablet computer had enough storage space for 10,000,000 hours of video recording. He propped his computer up against a wall and began recording himself. He gave a brief recap of everything had happened to him the day before, and then said, “Objectives for Day One: search for food and shelter; establish a routine; and gather as much information as possible.” He shut off the recording and said to himself, '...and one of the first pieces of information I need to know is how to go to the bathroom in space.'
     “Gorbitor, what kind of facilities are provided by the Treaty Organization for sentient beings preparing for negotiations?” A map of the city appeared before Sam's vision with half a dozen spots highlighted with the words “Public Contract Review Room” next to each one. Sam made his way to the nearest one. It was in a building not far from the treaty office, but more modest in scale, only about half a mile tall. The lobby of this building had undersea projections all around. Alien versions of colorful fish floated all about. Again, the walls and ceiling were indistinguishable. The teleportation squares on the floor were the same, though. Sam stepped on one and thought 'contract review room,' hoping that would be enough to trigger the mechanism. It was.
     He found himself in a small room, about three meters square. It had a small cushioned seat, a table, and in one corner a cylinder with a hole in the top which his Net informed him was a 'waste disposal receptacle.' He had to pull the chair over and perch somewhat awkwardly, but it served. Apparently, whatever was put in the cylinder was instantly disintegrated. After about five minutes, however, Sam was startled by a message that appeared before him, 'WARNING! Occupying a contract review room without actually reviewing a contract is an obstruction of commerce.' Hastily, Sam pulled up the comprehensive treaty and began to review it. The message went away. 'Well,' thought Sam wryly, 'there's the first step in my daily routine.'
     Lodging proved to be much more difficult. Acting on a hunch, he went back to the roundabout and started searching for notices about lodging. He found a wall in the central terminal which was displaying advertisements for a variety of products. He looked at it and wondered if it would begin to show ads for lodging. Immediately, all the ads switched to lodging. Utilizing the teleportation squares, he spent the morning visiting hotels. At the first place he stopped, he asked to see a room and was teleported into an empty cube, brilliantly lit up with multi-colored lights coming from every wall, and a soaking mist being carried on a mild breeze. Teleporting back, to the lobby, he discovered that he had been given a room for a Pisen. After describing what he needed to the sentient being in the hotel lobby, he was finally transported to a room that vaguely resembled a hotel room one could find on Earth. Unfortunately, he learned  that the least expensive room he could rent was one hundred and fifty million credits for one rotation of Leia—approximately 36 hours. The price was so high, he resolved to only rent lodging when the weather was unbearable.
     There was nothing like a television in the room, but the hotel itself broadcast programming into his Net. One thing Sam found interesting was that the hotel gave complete details about the other sentient beings staying there. There seemed to be no concern about privacy at all. For example, there was a sentient being from a planet orbiting Bernard's Star who was looking for a buyer for several thousand flat, oval shaped boards which used a combination of magnetism and static electricity to hover about six inches above any solid or liquid surface. They could be used singly for personal transportation, or in tandem to move massive objects. That sentient being, the hotel's Net informed Sam, was currently in its room, masturbating. Apparently, a great deal of commerce happened here purely by random encounters. It made some sense. With tens of thousands of races, each probably selling tens of thousands of different products, it would be impossible to keep track of all the possibilities. Creating a kind of planet wide bazaar would give traders a way to discover new products and services.
     His Net also allowed him to “shop” for various items. At one point, he wondered what sort of faster than light spaceship he would ask for. There immediately appeared before him a virtual catalog of spaceships for sale on Leia. Even though the least expensive was in the tens of quadrillions of credits, he found himself wistfully flipping through the lists, pictures and reviews of different kinds of ships.
     Unfortunately, there did not seem to be very much of anything that he could afford. He supplemented his meager food budget with a reed like plant that grew near the river that he found to be edible. He also kept an eye out for the frog like aliens and would follow them about, hoping to collect more excretions. At one point, they noticed what he was doing, and after that members of that species actually seemed to seek him out. They would helpfully hand their globs of green glop to him before bounding off on their own business. But that species was rare and only good for a meal once every two or three days. At the end of his first month, he had had to rent lodging three times because it was too cold or wet for him. It was clear he did not even have enough credits for food and lodging the next four years.
     He spent most nights sleeping under pedestrian ramps, wrapped in his Earth banner. One such night, he was awakened by something prodding him in the ribs. “...I asked you if you were hallucinating. Hallucinatory experiences are only permitted in drug emporiums, per treaty.” Sam was startled to see that this was apparently the same sentient being that had told him to move his ship that first day on Leia. It apparently recognized him at the same time. “You're the human from the Earth, Moon, and Mars. What are you doing?”
     “I was sleeping and probably dreaming. I'm sorry I forgot to turn off my Net. It seems that I'm only able to communicate with other sentient beings when I'm engaged in commerce in a store. My Net is so limited that I haven't had a conversation with another sentient being in weeks. I'm sorry,” Sam said again.
     “I saw an image of you. You were standing in front of thousands of humans like yourself. They were all watching you, and you did not have the external coverings that you now have. For some reason, this caused you great distress. You were supposed to be telling them something, but you could not seem to remember what it was.”    
     “Yes, that was a dream. It's a natural condition of my species to be in a dream state for several hours each day. I'm sure your Net is informing you that I'm telling the truth. I'm not having a hallucinatory experience. Again, I'm sorry. It won't happen again.”
     “If it does, I will fine you for obstruction of commerce. I'd fine you now, but you only have 12 Billion credits in your account. Why are you lying here?”
     “I have to wait 3 ½ more years for my credentials to be verified before I can begin trade negotiations with Gorbitor.”
     “Three and a half years. Is that a long time for your species?”
     “About a 20th of a typical life span.”
     It regarded Sam for a long moment with, Sam was surprised to see, a small degree of sympathy. “You can't continue to spend this “Sleep” time of yours on public sidewalks, like this. You could obstruct commerce, and if you forget again and start broadcasting images, you would definitely create a hazard for sentient beings in your area. Go to this location,” a map appeared indicating a building at the edge of the city, “The treaty enforcement agency recently seized it from its former owner for treaty violations. Until it is sold, spend your sleep time there.” The sentient being strode off with its graceful, fluid stride and was soon out of sight. It was the equivalent of four in the morning, but Sam knew better than to ignore a direct order from a treaty officer. He gathered up his things and headed off.
     The building was surrounded by virtual signs blazing in 1,000 colors, saying things like, “Treaty Repossession! Tremendous Bargain!” “Only 500 Quadrillion Credits!” “Financing Available!” The building itself was barely 500 meters high. It looked squat compared to the giants around it. He walked into the entrance of the building. There were no doors, just a rectangular opening about 100 feet wide and fifty feet tall. Inside was completely black. It wasn't just that there were no lights, the walls, ceiling and floors were all black, but reflective. The material looked like obsidian, but was not as hard. It felt like plastic. In an abandoned human building, there would be dangling electrical lines, perhaps there would be broken or missing dry wall exposing girders and wall supports. Here there was nothing: no support pillars; no windows; no internal walls, just a floor, outer walls and a ceiling about 75 feet above, eerily reflecting an image of Sam and his flashlight looking back down. An even eerier reflection looked up at him from the floor. How, he wondered, did the signs, lights and transport squares he'd seen in other buildings get powered without wires? Perhaps they used quantum teleportation for energy as well as matter.
     He decided to explore the building. Starting at the edge of the door opening, he walked clockwise around the interior, accompanied by his reflections. On the opposite side of the ramp, he discovered a broad spiral ramp that led to the upper floors. He searched about ten floors, finding them all absolutely featureless. There was nothing left on any of the floors or walls, not even dust. Finally, he went back down a few flights, made his way to a corner and fell asleep.
     So, now he had shelter of a sort. There began for Sam several months of increasing isolation. He started every day exercising, then spending several hours in a review room, studying the treaty documents. Then he would explore different aspects of the city, and record a video diary of what he had learned that day. Finally, he would make his way back to the abandoned building for some sleep. He hadn't packed a change of clothes or any soap or razor. He did happen to have a small towel in his bag, though. He used it along with water from a dispenser in the review room to bathe, but his hair and beard began to grow out and he became quite shaggy.
     One night, several months later, he was laying on his back in the abandoned building, staring up at the shaggy reflection of himself lit by the glare from his tablet computer. As he did many nights, he was running back over his experiences with Sporedum in his mind. Suddenly, he remembered the plasma knife. He dug through his bag until he found it. With a distinctive “woosh” the glowing “blade” extended, adding more light to the scene. Gingerly, he pulled some hair away from his head and passed the plasma through it. There was a slight hiss as the hair burned through, but it made a clean cut. Using the floor and ceiling reflections, he gave himself a passable hair cut and trimmed his beard neatly.
     He sat, plasma knife humming, staring up at his now neatly trimmed reflection. He was completely alone in a sea of blackness. Suddenly, the desperation of his situation crashed over him like a wave. In three years, he was expected to negotiate a treaty that would have long reaching effects on the entire human race. What if he made a mistake? What if his ignorance led to him putting the whole human race into slavery?  What if the treaty organization seized the Earth itself? His first attempt at negotiation with an alien species had been disastrous. Who was he to determine the fate of the whole human race? All the loneliness, shame and embarrassment of losing Sara surged over him and in a sudden frenzy of despair, he turned the plasma knife towards his own belly and pulled the handle towards himself.
     He felt a point of heat on his stomach, but nothing more. He pulled the knife away and tried again. Again, a point of heat, but there was no pain, no burning. He held the knife up with one hand, regarded it, and then slowly brought the point towards the palm of his other hand. About a millimeter from his skin, the glowing blade stopped. As he tried to move it closer, the “blade” simply shrank back into the handle until the cool metal of the handle itself was on his palm. Apparently, the was some sort of fail safe that prevented it from cutting living tissue. Again, Sporedum had told the truth when he had said it was “perfectly harmless.”
     Sam stuck his fingers through the two holes he had just burned in his suit. He suddenly felt a tremendous chill as he realized what he had just tried to do. A huge shudder went through his body. That should not have happened. He had gone through more extensive psychological testing than any human in history. He had been chosen out of almost a million applicants in part because his psychological profile completely simply did not include the idea of suicide. Something was wrong. If he was the sort of person who would commit suicide in this situation, even if it wasn't premeditated, he simply should not have been chosen.
     He thought back over what had happened to him since he had arrived: the way Sporedum had been waiting for him when he came out of the treaty office, and how he somehow had Sara's security codes. The fact that the Taco Bell-like restaurant had a menu for Earth, and above all the loss of funding for Star Command. Something was going on. Somehow the fix was in. His mission had been set up for failure, and now he couldn't fully trust even himself. What other hidden psychological flaws did he have?
     He shook his head. This was not a question he could answer. Whatever had happened to bring him to this point, the fact was he was here. He would now have to treat himself the way he would a malfunctioning piece of equipment that could not be replaced. Regular sleep, exercise, and somehow he would have to find some kind of social group, some kind of unmixed friendship. These are the things he knew humans needed for mental health. He had not really tried to create relationships with any of the sentient beings on Leia, because of the difficulty in communicating. Now, he realized that if he was to survive, he needed to find a friend.
     The next morning, he decided to create a map of the city, cataloging the purpose of each of the buildings and exploring each one in turn, as much as he was permitted. Over the next days and weeks, he mapped out warehouses, living quarters, many buildings dedicated to treaty administration, manufacturing plants, and some buildings whose purpose he could not fathom. Most used the Net to garishly advertise their purpose and contents. Some were more subdued. He came across one building, near the center of the city, that was unusual.
     It had no virtual ornamentation of any kind. It was a simple black rectangle, about a mile and a half tall. What was most unusual was that it had three live doormen, one on either side of the huge door opening, and one in the center. They were all the same species as the treaty officer who had given Sam permission to sleep in the empty building, but were even taller and more muscular than it was. They were dressed in outfits that were completely black, matching the building.
     Sam's method of exploration was to simply go wherever he was permitted and observe everything he could. So, he started walking towards the entrance of the building. The sentient being in the center moved to block his path. “Where are you going?” it said.
     “I just wanted to explore this building. What is its function? The sentient being's center eye focused on Sam, and the iris contracted to a pinpoint.
     There was a pause. “What is your name and species?”
     “Sam Melton, I'm a human from the planet Earth.”
     There was another pause. Sam realized it was using its Net to check in with someone else. “Go see Haocu.” It finally said, and used one limb to gently but irresistibly push Sam into the building.
     The lobby was also different from any other building Sam had visited. Again, there was absolutely no virtual ornamentation, not even a directory. Also, instead of dozens of small transport squares, there was only a single, huge square that took up about 90% of the floor space. From what Sam had learned about them, this one may have been large enough to transport to nearby solar systems. Seized with a sudden idea, he ran to the center of the pad and thought “Earth!”
     'You are authorized to use this pad only for transport to Haocu.'
     “Fine,” said Sam, “Haocu, then.”
     Sam found himself in a very spacious room. This one did not lack for ornamentation. The walls and ceilings were covered in a dizzying array of objects. Some seemed to be two or three dimensional images of alien landscapes or sentient beings. Others were strange devices. Sam was surprised to see what looked like an over sized eggbeater pinned to one wall. But he only had a moment to take in the scene before the sentient being at the other end of the room called out to him.
     “Hello, friend! Welcome!” It looked like an anthropomorphized hippopotamus, with shiny gray skin and a round head with oversized eyes and mouth. “I have to say, you're the strangest looking Pisen I've ever seen!” Sam didn't need the flashing “humor” message his Net was displaying. He found himself smiling, despite himself. “Of course, you're not really a Pisen, are you? You're Sam Melton, human from Earth, Moon, and Mars. Don't be too surprised,” Haocu tapped his temple where his Net could be plainly seen on his hairless scalp, “I've got the deluxe Net, finest credits could buy. It tells me everything a treaty officer would see, and it does even more. For example, watch this,” Sam watched with growing unease as Haocu's countenance seemed to change. His facial expression and posture shifted rapidly as Sam's net reported a series of different emotions; rage, fear love, sympathy, confusion, and several that said, untranslatable. “Most sentient beings don't know that treaty officers can choose to project whatever sort of emotional state they wish using their Net.”
     “Are you a treaty officer?” Sam asked.
     Haocu actually laughed for several seconds. It was the first laughter Sam had heard since his arrival on Leia. “No,” Haocu finally said, “I'm almost the opposite of a treaty officer. Treaty officers enforce a set of formal rules. But, wherever rules are established, there are advantages for those who can circumvent them. That is what I do. The treaty organization operates on transactions. I am part of an organization that operates primarily on friendship.
     “For example, I see that you have 11 billion credits in your account. Let me double that for you.”
     Before Sam's eyes, the words 'Unrestricted gift of 11 billion credits offered by Haocu. Accept?'
     Sam was instantly cautious. “On my planet, dealing with those who specialize in circumventing rules and laws can lead to very serious consequences.”
     “You don't have to worry. Look at page 17,437 of the treaty document. It specifically says, 'Any sentient being can receive an unsolicited, unrestricted gift from another sentient being without being subject to trade regulations as long as there are no expectations of economic benefit from the gifter.' So, you can see, nothing to worry about, and for me 11 billion credits is next to nothing. Without that provision, our association of friends would have a very hard time functioning on treaty worlds. You probably won't be surprised to learn that we had a hand in putting it in. So, are we friends? Will you accept my gift?”         
     Twenty two billion credits would be enough for Sam to have regular lodging, maybe even a better Net. He was just thinking that he needed friends, and her was a sentient being offering to be one. “Ok, Haocu, I accept your gift.”  
     “Excellent! Let me say, formally, that I expect nothing in return. As you know, 11 billion credits is not very much. This is just a token of friendship. So, friend, tell me about yourself. How do you find life on Leia?”
     “It's been very hard. Without very many credits, I'm having problems just securing food and shelter.” 
     “Oh, let me tell you, then, this place,” an image of a building with its location marked on an associated map appeared, “will sell you food an lodging at about half the average rate. They're friends of mine. Just mention my name.”
     Sam said nothing. Once again, things were sounding too good to be true. Haocu continued.
     “So, our group of friends includes many species from many planets. We very seldom have actual transactions that we half to report to the Treaty Organization. We're very generous with each other. You can see many gifts I've received from friends on the walls and ceilings, here. Everyone brings something different. Every species has different strengths and specialties.
     “You're special because you're the first official representative of your species. When you negotiate your trade deal, you'll be setting up billions of transactions of technology, raw materials, and so forth, but you'll also be creating opportunities for relationships. That's what I would like to propose to you. For now, I'll do things for you, and you do things for me. No transactions are involved or needed. Then, as we get to know and trust each other better, we can tell each other things. We can share information. For example, when you're negotiating with Gorbitor, you might run into a situation you're not familiar with. You can talk to me and I'll give you advice, maybe offer some suggestions that will benefit you and your friends. I do have a suggestion right now. Here's a draft treaty you might want to consider,” 'New Document Uploaded: Draft Trade Treaty' appeared. “Also,” Haocu continued, I'll give you some advice. Before you actually go in to negotiate with Gorbitor, remove the Pisen add on from your net. It's bootleg, and negotiating with an unauthorized Net attachment is grounds for you to lose your certification as a negotiator. That's on page 645 under “Conditions for Negotiations.””
     Sam quickly scanned that section of the treaty document, and, sure enough, it was exactly as Haocu had said. “Thank you, Haocu, “ Sam said, “I'm not sure that I would have caught that in time. “
     “Yes, it's a very annoying provision. The reasoning is that having a bootleg Net suggests that the negotiator might already be under the influence of “certain elements” in Treaty society. You can probably guess that, while some of us are finding ways to get around the rules, there are others who are committed to creating and following them, and they spend a lot of time and energy trying to force everyone else to do the same. But, we all seem to exist together, somehow. The power of  credits, I guess. So, what is your decision?”
     Haocu stood before Sam, his huge eyes fixed and unblinking. To Sam, it felt exactly like when Sporedum had faced him, months earlier. 'At least,' Sam thought to himself, 'I'm not going to make exactly the same mistake again.'
     “I'm going to have to think about it, Haocu,” Sam said.
     Haocu laughed again. “Thinking is good!” he said, “It's what sets us sentient beings apart from the rest, isn't it? But don't think too long. Opportunities are either seized or lost. I've enjoyed talking to you. Call me any time. Any time you need something and I'll see if I can help.” With a broad sweep of his thick arm, Haocu gestured that Sam should head back to the teleport pad. Suddenly, he dropped his arm and appeared to be confused.
     “Are you confused about something?” Sam asked.
     “No,” Haocu said, returning to his usual joking demeanor, “and you shouldn't be, either. I was just demonstrating again that the Treaty Organization has hidden tricks that you don't know about. They've negotiated thousands of these treaties, and usually they're negotiated in a way that benefits their organization, not the new civilizations that are just joining. The importance of some of the provisions they're going to propose won't be clear until your race has been a member of the organization for many years. You could doom your race to slavery or actually be driven from your home planet. Joining the treaty organization doesn't give your planet thousands of allies, it gives it thousands of competitors. Some of those competitors have had thousands of years' head start on you. I want you to seriously consider the draft treaty language I gave you. It might just save your life.”
     Haocu again gestured toward the teleport pad and Sam left the building more confused than ever. He did not go to Haocu's “friend's” hotel, but he did check in to the inexpensive lodging that he had looked at before. He spent an entire day simply luxuriating in being able to bathe, sleep, and go to the bathroom whenever he wished.
     He had been in his hotel room for almost a week when he received an unusual notification from his Net. 'Communication request from sentient being, Chlorophyll,  Accept?'
     'Yes,' thought Sam. He knew he should be cautious about contact from Sporedum's ex-mating partner, but he couldn't help but feel predisposed to like someone that Sporedum had found so irritating.
     'Sam Melton, I am Chlorophyll. Did Sporedum tell you about me?'
     'Constantly.' Sam's Net reported that Chlorophyll was briefly pleased by this.
     'I called you because Sporedum is dead. I know what he did to you, how he cheated you out of your spaceship, because he contacted me to boast about it. He thought that, with enough credits, I would be tempted to try to mate with him, again. He refused to accept that I refused to mate with him because he was simply too stupid.'
     'How did he die?'
     “I will show you.' Suddenly, an image of Sporedum standing on the main bridge of Sam's ship appeared before his eyes. The effect was so disorienting that he had to sit down. Sporedum was facing what Sam realized must have been deck camera 3.
     “Chlorophyll,” Sporedum said in a mechanical “voice” that had no inflection, “I am making this recording so that you can watch me conclude the deal which will finally give us enough credits to form a mating group. Watch!” Sporedum went and stood next to the transport square. A weird group of creatures appeared. One was a tall creature with pure white limbs that protruded from a dark robe. It had three legs that ended in what looked like hooves. There were also two “arms” that ended in smooth tentacles. One of those arms floated freely, but the other was enmeshed n a roiling ball of what looked like dark grey slugs. Covered in slime, the ball contained about 50 slugs which were each about three feet long. The creatures in the ball were roughly tubes that tapered to a point at either end, with no discernible sense organs and no difference between head and tail. They were constantly shifting position within the ball, sliding past, over, and around each other.
     “Greetings, Sporedum.” the tall creature spoke in exactly the same toneless mechanical voice Sporedum used. Sam realized that Sporedum must have created some kind of interface between his Net and Sara. That's how he was able to use the ship's camera to record the video which was then sent to Chlorophyll over the Net. While Sara could record each word that was said, the computer could not have given those words the inflection of an actual conversation. 
     “Welcome! Welcome!” Sporedum was saying, “I am very happy that we can finally bring our agreement to a mutually satisfactory conclusion! You're prepared to transfer the 900 septillion credits?”
     “You have brought the ship from Earth as agreed, but my employers wish to know what you did with the human?”
     “Stranded on Leia with just a type one Net and only sixteen billion credits.”
     “That is satisfactory.” Here are your credits.
     “Thank you! Thank You!...and let me say that if the T'Kaf require any future service from me, I will be happy to oblige.”
     “The T'Kaf require only one more service from you. That is, you will now serve them as nutrition.”
     About ten of the slugs had broken away from the writhing ball and, moving surprisingly quickly, had reached Sporedum just as the tall creature finished speaking. A kind of foam appeared on the first slug. It must have contained some kind of acid or digestive enzyme, because where it touched one of Sporedum's fronds, the frond instantly withered and dissolved.
     “Unfortunately for you, you failed to specify in your contract with the T'Kaf that they could NOT eat you at the conclusion of the deal. It's a mistake many sentient beings make the first time they deal with the T'Kaf.”
     Sporedum was screaming now, which the makeshift translation technology reported as a high pitched “EEEEEE” sound. Sam hated Sporedum, but he couldn't help but feel pity for the sentient being as he was externally digested. Sporedum tried pushing the T'Kaf away, but whatever frond he pushed with simply dissolved. As the main stalk fell to the floor because its base had been dissolved our from under it, Sporedum shouted something unintelligible.
     “Repeat.” The tall being said.
     “DEAL'S OFF!” Sporedum managed one final shout before the relentless T'Kaf reached his flower head.
     “Acknowledged. T'Kaff accept the cancellation of agreement and refund of 900 septillion credits. The slug like creatures that were eating Sporedum finished their work quickly and efficiently. They oozed back to rejoin the writhing ball on the transport pad and then they all disappeared.
     All that was left of poor Sporedum was his travel pouch and his Net, laying on the floor next to each other. Chlorophyll cut in, “The recording continues like this for ten more minutes, then ends. I received the call a few hours ago. In an earlier message to me, Sporedum explained everything he did to you. I want you to know that not all Pisen act in the way Sporedum did, although for 900 septillion credits, there are many who would.
     “He has left everything he owned to me, including your ship. I have no use for it. I want to return it to you.”
     There appeared before Sam a proposed transaction, 'Unrestricted gift of one spaceship from Chlorophyll offered. Accept?'
     “Yes!” Sam cried out without hesitation.
     'Transaction complete' flashed before his eyes.
     “But Chlorophyll, I have no way to retrieve my ship. I'm still on Leia.”
     'I'm sorry, but I don't have time to go get your ship back. Besides, it's still in orbit around the home planet of the T'Kaf. As you just saw, that's a very dangerous place.”
     “Somehow, though, you were sent the video recording ten minutes after Sporedum had been killed. I recognize that subroutine. Sara was programmed to do that in the event I died while recording. That means Sporedum has somehow hooked his Net into Sara's functions.”
     “I'm sure he did.”
     “Also, that alien did a transaction. He took the credits back after Sporedum had died. Does that mean Sporedum's Net is still working and connected to my ship?”
     “It might. The Net does continue to function after death for financial transactions. That's how all of Sporedum's assets got transferred to me.”
     “Sporedum had blocked me from communicating with his Net. Chlorophyll, Could you please remove that block and the block he had put on the transport pad, and transfer ownership of them to me?”
     “Why not? His Net is no good to me. I've already transferred all the information I want out of it...There. It's done.”
     “Sporedum's Net,” Sam thought and said, “I wish to communicate with Sara.”
     The words “Link Established” appeared before his eyes.
     “Sara!” Sam sent.
     “Communication acknowledged. Please identify.” Sara now had the same toneless voice Sporedum and the horse like alien had had.
     “Sara, acknowledge, Sam Melton. Identification code: T,O,S,1,1A,2B.”
     “It's good to hear from you, Sam.”
     Sam felt an incredible rush of relief. Intellectually, he knew that Sara was just a computer. Emotionally, she was his closest friend. “Sara, can you pilot the ship back to the planet Leia?”
     “Negative. There were seven discontinuous points in the voyage. I am now approximately 100,000 light years away. I have insufficient fuel for a return.”
     “He must have been using space based cargo transport gates,” interjected Chlorophyll, “since your ship is slower than light, he would have had to have flown the ship between gates. That's why it took so long to deliver it. If your ship can fly back along the same route, it can use them again. But it will have to have sufficient credits to pay for the passages.”
     “Chlorophyll, you've done so much for me already, more than I could have hoped for. Could I ask you to help me get my ship back?” There was a pause.
     “Alright, Sam Melton, “I'll transfer enough credits to you to slightly more than pay for the passage. That's still less than 1% of the credits Sporedum transferred to me upon his death. I never hated Sporedum, but one of the reasons I left him was he was always trying to pull these kinds of shady deals. I knew it would get him in trouble, but I didn't realize just how terrible it would turn out for him, and of course for you, too. It gives me some pleasure that I am undoing the last dishonest thing he did. Also, it's clear the T'Kaff don't want you to have your ship. If they don't want you to have it, I do. There's so few of us Pisen left, to see one of us, even though it was Sporedum, simply...eaten like that. I won't accept it. I've transferred the credits. But, your ship will still have to be able to communicate with the automated gate control mechanisms by itself and set the proper coordinates each time it passes through one.”
     “Sara, can you do that?”
     “Affirmative. Sporedum uploaded a database of all galactic transport gates and programmed instructions into me for navigating them. I piloted myself to the T'Kaf home world. Sporedum was not on board. He left the ship 72 hours after we left Leia's orbit and returned 1 hour before I arrived.”
     “Chlorophyll?”
     “Yes, Sam Melton?”
     “Could I continue to communicate with you from time to time?”
     “Yes, but not for a week, at least. I have a lot to do dealing with Sporedum's death.” Chlorophyll broke the communication link with Sam, but he remained connected to Sara.
     “Sara, bring the ship back to the planet Leia. Give me an ETA.”
     “Affirmative, ETA 1 year, two months, four days, and seventeen hours. Initiating engine burn.”
     “Sara. It's good to have you back.”
     “Affirmative.”
     He had Sara back. Over the following weeks, he would check on her several times each day, monitoring fuel usage, turning off unused systems, and reviewing the data she was collecting as the ship traveled alone through distant parts of the galaxy. Sometimes he would ask her to show him the view of the surrounding stars using the ship's cameras. The ship reached the first transport gate within a day of starting back. A proposed transaction for the gate fee popped up. He paid the credits immediately, and Sara made the first jump without a problem.
     The next months proceeded with agonizing slowness for Sam. He maintained his routine of studying the treaty, exercising and exploring, but Leia's 36 hour days made each day seem like two. He found that he could only handle reading the dense treaty language about four hours at a time. After that, he would have to take a break and walk about outside. He spent several hours each day, virtually connected to his ship. He even found a way to play poker with Sara. He had her display the cards on one of the bridge monitors, and would tell her what cards to play. Of course, he could much more easily have played cards on his tablet computer, but he found it comforting to have some kind of presence on the ship, even though it was still tens of thousands of light years away.
     He took steps to secure his living situation, finding more inexpensive lodging and carefully moderating his calorie intake. This let him budget his remaining credits so that, barring any disaster, he would have enough to last until Sara's return with a comfortable margin.
     One evening, about three months after regaining Sara, Sam was on his way back to his room when he decided to stop in at one of the narcotics emporiums. Sara had just successfully navigated her second transport gate, and he was feeling very optimistic. He strode in, went up to the sentient being behind the counter and said, “Bartender, get me a drink!”
     “That statement did not quite translate,” replied the sentient being behind the counter who resembled nothing so much as a large white rabbit, though thinner and with longer ears, “We are providers of pleasurable experiences, not liquid beverages.”
     “I am a human from the planet Earth. Do you have anything for me?”
     “Yes. We provide each customer with a personal experience designed around their own physiology. Your Net reports that you cognitive functions are based on a cellular network that uses a combination of chemical and electrical signals to process sensations. We will design a chemical and electrical process that will stimulate the pleasure centers of your brain in a way unique to you. Here are our prices...” A menu appeared.
·       5 Minutes of Pure Ecstasy        10 Million Credits
·       20 Minutes Paroxysms of Joy 100 Million Credits
·       1 Hour of bliss             200 Million Credits
·       Hallucinatory Heaven             40 Billion Credits
·       Lifetime of Happiness       1 Quadrillion Credits
     “Lifetime of happiness? You can really do that?”
     “Easily. It only takes a small neural adjustment to permanently stimulate your pleasure centers. Of course, the intensity of the pleasure will slowly diminish over time. That's why we only guarantee happiness, not joy or ecstasy, but so far, all of our billions of customers have been happy with the results.” The rabbit smiled.
     “I think I'll just try five minutes of pure ecstasy.” Sam held out his bank token and paid. A large, black, bell shaped contrivance lowered down from the ceiling and settled on Sam's shoulders, completely covering his head. A message appeared. 'Please wait while your pleasure centers are mapped.' Sam began to feel flickers of many different emotions in rapid succession; fear, anger, lust, and finally pleasure. He heard a buzzing sound and then began experiencing a series of scents. There was lilac, clover and finally caught a whiff of the perfume his grandmother used to wear. The bell-shaped helmet lifted, and there before his eyes was the overstuffed couch with the floral print that used to be in his grandmother's living room.
     “Lay down on the couch and we will begin,” said the attendant. “You have a very unusual brain physiology. Some of the proteins in your happiness formulation had to be folded into extremely convoluted shapes. Many happiness emporiums don't pay proper attention molecular shape, but our experience is you can't have a true saturation of the proper receptors without paying particular attention to shape.”
     Sam had laid down on the couch that looked and smelled exactly like the one he remembered as a child. There was even the small tear in the upper right hand corner where he and his brother Mike had torn the couch covering while wrestling. Suddenly, the whole situation seemed wrong. “Wait, I have some questions. This process, are there side effects? Is this substance addictive? What's my grandmother's couch doing here?”
     “Our corporation is prevented by treaty from selling addictive substances on this planet. Although, if you're already addicted to something I may be able to arrange a transaction...” The rabbit paused, Sam said nothing and it continued, “The peptides you'll be ingesting will break down in your body after five minutes, or if you're lucky, perhaps six. There will be no permanent change to your neural structures and no biological cravings will be created.
     “Through your Net, you're perceiving our rest cushion as your grandmother's couch because we've taken a memory that's associated in your mind with pleasure in order to prepare your emotional system for the experience to come. Do you wish to proceed? There are no refunds at this point because your ecstasy compounds have already been prepared, but you're under no obligation to proceed.”
     Sam hesitated a moment longer. On Earth he occasionally visited the Doobie Dog stores, but the cannaboid laden brownies he bought there seemed terribly primitive compared to this. Still, he realized that, if he allowed it in the treaty negotiations, emporiums like this could suddenly appear all over the Earth. He had to have some idea of what people would be exposed to. “Go ahead,” he finally said.
     The white rabbit attached a breathing mask with a hose over his face. There was a hissing sound like the nebulizer his brother Mike had used to treat his asthma when they were children.
     Sam felt a cool mist covering his face and he dimly heard the attendant say, “Breathe deeply...” but then his attention became wholly focused on his heart beat. He felt his heart thumping in his chest, but he realized that he felt much more than that. He could feel the different parts of his heart contracting in turn, first the atria, then the ventricles. Then, he felt the relaxation in between, and in that rest between two heartbeats, he felt joy. He felt as if that break was the triumphant pause after some herculean effort. But then there was even more joy in the next contraction. He could feel his pulse travel through his body, ending in the tips of his fingers and toes, and it carried with it pure, unadulterated, ecstasy. His mind raced through every pleasurable sensation he had experienced in his life up until that point from suckling at his mother's breast as an infant, to a lover's touch searching for some context in which to place what he was now feeling. Nothing compared. Then he noticed his breathing.
     He let out an involuntary moan, then he felt the air from Leia enter his nostrils, wend its way through his sinuses, and then plunge down into his lungs. He could feel the millions of tiny alveoli filling with the whirling vortices of air, feel that air as it spun and warmed in those tiny chambers and felt the delicious pause as the breath reached its peak, and then felt more anticipation than at the top of a roller coaster as his diaphragm slowly began to push up into his lungs, squeezing them. All the tiny eddying pools of warm air cascaded out into a torrent of breath pouring out of his body.
     Then, it all happened again, and again, and the joy connected with the breathing had not diminished or distracted from the joy of the heartbeat. He began to writhe on the couch and the sensation of the soft, velvety surface upon his skin heaped new loads of pleasure onto his already overladen consciousness. He squeezed his eyes shut and covered his ears to try to prevent more sights and sounds from entering his mind in the fear that they would completely overwhelm him, but the sensation of contracting his eyelid muscles and the touch of his own fingertips to his ears brought even more pleasure. He arched his back, pushing the back of his head deep into the cushion beneath him.
     “It's best not to move too much,” came the voice of the attendant, “You could injure yourself.”
     He suddenly felt closer to that alien than he had ever felt to anyone in his life. Her concern for him overwhelmed him with its generosity and he began to cry. He felt connected to the attendant, connected to the billions of sentient beings on Leia, to the people of Earth, to the entire galaxy. Tears began to flow like breath, and he lost all sense of time until, slowly, the joy began to ebb. His tears stopped. He could feel the sensation of ecstasy flowing back from his fingers and toes, centering again around his heart, and then finally dimming out like a firefly's flash.
     “Seven minutes,” the rabbit said, “slightly longer than anticipated. Still, it's not unusual for the initial dose to be slightly off. You can remain here for up to two hours, if you need to recover. That is also the minimum amount of time required before you may receive another dose.”
     Without a word, Sam swung his legs off the couch, stood up, and walked out the door. He knew that he could never allow himself to try that again. He could not exactly remember what he had just felt, could not evoke that pure pleasure again, but the shape of the void the lack of it left was somehow sharply and permanently delineated in his consciousness. He did not crave the drug, but he knew his whole life would now be divided into the time before and after those seven minutes on the shadow of his grandmother's couch.
     One day, Sam looked at the chronometer on his tablet and realized that more than two years had passed. The probe sent by the treaty enforcement agency should have reached Earth, delivered its message, received a reply an already be making its way back.
     After two years of studying the treaty documents, he was beginning to make some sense of them. A tremendous amount of regulation surrounded the initial contact with a new world. Creating the initial trading relationships was considered so valuable that all businesses and civilizations were banned from making contacts until the initial negotiations with the treaty organization were complete. Sam guessed that there must have been many businesses that had broken that rule, because of the tremendous number and severity of penalties for breaking it. He had considered the idea of hiring a pilot to simply intercept the probe after it had left the solar system and return it to Leia ahead of schedule. But, it turned out that the probe had to remain untouched and under seal until it returned. From this, Sam deduced that in the past some sentient being must have tampered with the returning probe to gain a trade advantage.
     Besides being a list of rules, the treaty was also a hodge podge of concepts and ideas pieced together from a thousand different races. His Net attempted to present everything in its neutral and simplified language, but some provisions were so long, convoluted and counter intuitive that they literally made his head hurt. Some days he found himself sitting on the edge of a walkway, holding his throbbing head between his hands and despairing of ever being able to do the task set before him. On one of those days, a cheerful “voice” interrupted his dark cycles of thought.
     “Why so glum, chum?”
     Sam looked up to see a light brown sentient being. It was roughly pear shaped with short, stumpy legs. It was covered in a dense curly fur. A white belt that had several pouches and devices hanging from it was the only apparent clothing. A round head and snout was topped by two rounded ears. Sam had to suppress an irrational urge to run up and hug this creature he'd never seen before.
     “How is it you came up with a greeting that rhymed? You're not actually speaking English?”
     “My Net, of course. I'm an Ursanoid, name of Tebba,” said the sentient being as if that was the obvious answer. “We're the race that first created the Net technology, and our Nets are still the best in the galaxy. Rhyming, humor, innuendo, jargon, my Net is capable of more subtleties and nuance than any Net you can buy. I can even communicate fully with someone like you, a human from Earth with a type 1 Net and a bootleg Pisen patch.
     “But, hey, you haven't answered my question, yet. What are you doing on this beautiful spring day on Leia being such a gloomy Gus?”
     'Gloomy Gus?' Sam had to wonder where Tebba's Net had found such an antiquated turn of phrase. His own psyche? Some outdated vocabulary database? It didn't really matter. “Are you sure you want to know? It's a long story.”
     “Sure, I've got time, as long as you don't mind helping me pull my wagon here.”
     For the first time, Sam noticed that Tebba was towing behind him a floating platform that had a mix of round, cylindrical, and cube shaped containers. What was in them, Sam could not guess. Sam stood up, took the handle from Tebba and began walking alongside him. Tebba was only about four feet tall and lacked knees and elbows. As they walked along, Tebba had to take three steps to every one of Sam's, but it kept up and listened intently as Sam told him the whole story of his time on Leia.
     “So, your ship doesn't get back for six months, and you still have six more months to wait before the probe returns and you can begin negotiating. Meanwhile, you are running out of credits and you have no way to contact your home world.
     “Well, I might be able to help you out, some. My race has a gift for communicating. That's how we were able to create the Net technology. So, we're often called on to be intermediaries or negotiators between races. We're friends with everybody and enemies to nobody, well almost nobody, but let's not worry about that. Anyway, that's my mission here, today. I'm trying to negotiate a side treaty between two races that each control a measurable fraction of the galaxy. They've already had some violent conflicts. Each have forcibly taken cargo ships and their containers from the other.”
     “Wouldn't that be prevented by treaty?” Sam asked, incredulous.
     “Well, the treaty doesn't explicitly bar piracy per se, though we've been trying to get that added for many years. As long as those doing it act within the laws of their own civil authority, it's tolerated by the treaty organization. Anywho, this building is where the meeting is. The representatives should already be waiting. I've deliberately arrived late as part of creating the right atmosphere for them to start experiencing some commonalities. If they both start out just a little irritated with me, that brings them both a little closer to each other
     “I'd like to make you an offer. This cart is covered with audio visual equipment that I need to set up. If you'd spend the rest of the day helping me with the equipment, I will pay you 20 billion credits.” The proposed contract appeared before Sam. It was simple and straightforward. He could not see any reason to refuse it.
     “OK, Tebba. I agree.”
     “Terrific! Thank you!” Tebba briefly took Sam's hands in his warm, furry ones and squeezed them softly. Sam noticed Tebba had three fingers on each hand. “Now, we have to hurry. If we keep them waiting too long, they might start talking terms on their own, and that could easily blow up into a full scale war.“
     “But, why do you need AV equipment? Can't you just display everything they need to see on their Nets?” Sam asked as they entered the building's lobby.
     “Nets can be hacked,” Tebba replied as they approached the transport squares, “These are extremely important and confidential negotiations. The only way to ensure all the participants are experiencing the same thing is to provide shared external stimuli.” They appeared at one end of a large, rectangular room. Along one side about a dozen beings who resembled caterpillars in plate armor squatted behind a long table. Along the other, Sam was unpleasantly surprised to see about the same number of the three legged sentient beings in dark robes of the kind that he had first seen through Sara's camera on his ship.
     Tebba cartwheeled into the middle of the room, where there was a cylindrical podium waiting. He nimbly hopped up onto it shouting, “Hey! Hey! HEY! Let's get these negotiations started!” The podium whirled around several times so that Tebba was facing first one side, then the other. He came to rest facing Sam and the cart. “This is my trusted assistant, Sam. He will be setting up my audiovisual display.”
     “Hello,” said Sam, waving his hand at the group and feeling sudden stage fright. The reaction of the sentient beings reminded Sam of the reaction he had received when he stood up on the Hope's landing deck so many months ago. The robed beings rapidly intertwined each others' smooth tentacles while the caterpillar-like creature bobbed up and down.
     “Just set up here, next to the podium, Sam.” Tebba said, then turned his podium to face the dark-robed beings. “Now Ipst delegation, we had agreed upon the areas of negotiation, but I received a communication saying you wished to add two more topics?”
     “Sam could not understand the Ipst delegation reply, but he forgot all about it when he suddenly realized he had no idea how to set up the equipment. He stalled for time by unloading the cart and moving it to the other end of the room. As he walked back towards the pile of containers, he tried asking his Net for directions. There was no response. Tebba already seemed deep into serious trouble with the negotiations, whipping his podium around as the two sides were rapidly exchanging responses. Same dared not ask for help.
     None of the containers had any labels that Sam could see. The ones that were shaped like cylinders, though, seemed to be made of metal. The lids seemed to be held on by simple friction. Sam sat on the floor, wrapping his legs around one of the cylinders that was about two feet high and decorated with a pattern of beige squares on a white background. He began to pry the lid off.
     Suddenly, a tube of wires sheathed in a bright yellow fabric leapt out of the container, seemed to hover in the air for a moment, quivering, then fell draping itself over Tebba's head.
     The delegations again went into their spasmodic reactions. Tebba slowly lifted the tube off of his head and handed it down to Sam, saying, “This is the photon conduit, Sam. It connects to the nine photon generators at one end and the projector at the other. Now, delegates, I draw your attention to Item 2....”
     It took almost an hour, but Sam was finally able to assemble the projector. Once he had everything unboxed, the connections were fairly straightforward. The biggest problem was that the photon generators were round and slippery. At one point, he dropped one and had to chase it down, actually having to crawl under the table of the caterpillar delegates to retrieve it. Once the projector was working, and Tebba began using it, Sam sat on the cart at the end of the room, watching the proceedings. The projector spun its three dimensional images of different stars, planets, and nebulea while Tebba described what was being shown. He made suggestions and offered compromises as the projector showed different proposals for dividing that section of the galaxy over political control, resource extraction, future expansion, and other areas.
     Sam tried to absorb as much information as he could for his reports back to Earth. He followed the ebb and flow of the negotiations as first one side, then the other seemed to gain some sort of advantage. Through it all, Tebba remained enthusiastic and indefatigable. It took about sixteen hours, but in the end the projector displayed two columns of text which Sam deduced were the names of the participants. Each name in turn, turned a violet color, indicating consensus. A deal had been reached. Tebba came down off the podium and walked over to Sam. “You did great, Sam,” Tebba said, putting a furry, three-fingered hand on his shoulder, “Now let's pack up and go get something to eat.”
     Tebba took Sam to one of the most expensive restaurants in the city. “That went really well,” Tebba said as he began grazing on a heaping plate of what looked like lawn mower clippings. Sam had also ordered a salad. It was the first time in three years that he had been able to order greens. The leaves in the salad were not exactly lettuce, but they were close enough. “In fact,” Tebba continued, “I don't see how it could possibly have gone any better. We averted a war, today. Thanks to your help.”
     “My help? I didn't do very much, and I thought I was going to die when that coil of wires landed on your head.”
     Tebba let out a roar of laughter. “That was perfect! I couldn't have planned it any better.”
     “What do you mean?”
     “Humor, Sam, laughter. It's the one universal that's shown up in all sentient races so far. It's key to cracking any race's method of communication. Now take your hand, for example...”
     “My hand?” Sam looked at his hand, wiggling his fingers and Tebba let out a guffaw.
     “Excactly! You've got five fingers! That's really weird. Most sentients that have some kind of hand have three fingers, like me. Then, there are tentacles of various configurations, like the Ipst race. Some have hundreds of little cillia, but five digits is very uncommon, and I knew that both the Ipst and the Desispummet races would find it funny. Oh, and when you dropped that photon generator? Priceless. The Desispummet were practically declaring war at that point, but with you crawling around under the table, the emotional impact of what they were saying was diverted and I was able to pull the negotiations back to more productive areas.”
     “So, I was a clown?”
     “Would that be a bad thing? No, you were just yourself, and that's funny enough. The universe is a hilarious place, Sam. In fact, my people believe that sentience evolved just so that there would be someone to get the joke. The moment I saw you sitting there with your head in your hands, I knew that the Universe had provided me with the perfect straight man.”     
     Sam wasn't sure quite how to take this. Tebba seemed perfectly sincere, but it was entirely possible that he was being mocked. At last he said, “So, we actually averted a war?”
     “Oh, no question. The lives of billions of sentient beings and the ecosystems of dozens of planets were at stake. The agreement we worked out today should hold for at least 50 years, and perhaps more. Oh, I almost forgot, here's your pay.” The transaction flashed before Sam's eyes. “Tell you what, how about I give you a ride home?”
     “What?”
     “Sure! I'm grateful for the job you did, today, and I really don't like staying on these treaty planets any longer than I have to. I've got plenty of room in my ship; your planet is right next door. Let's go!”
     “I have a few things in my room I'd like to take with me...”
     “No problem! Meet me at the roundabout in about around an hour from now.”
     “Thank you, Tebba!” Sam finally gave in to the urge to hug the furry little being, then raced out of the restaurant. This time it felt right. If there was one thing Sam had learned in his time on Leia, it was to trust his feelings. Running back to his room, he worried about how he was going to be able to carry all the stuff he had accumulated. Then he remembered that Tebba had paid him 50 billion credits. He stopped at at a shop on the way and bought a floating cart, similar to the one Tebba had. Back in his room, he began tossing everything into the cart in a frenzy. He paused when he came to the cup he had taken from the taco bell-like restaurant so long ago. That, he collapsed and put into a pocket of his jumpsuit.
     He was back at the roundabout in just under half an hour. He knew that he was early, so he sat down to wait. He pulled out his tablet for one last recording of the comings and going of the sentient beings around him. He used his Net to take care of several little details such as settling the bill for his room and checking with Gorbitor to make sure he could conduct the trade negotiations from Earth. The appointed time came and went. Sam grew increasingly nervous. The old trauma of his dealings with Sporedum resurfaced. He started pacing back and forth. At last he called Tebba on the Net.
     “Sorry, running a little late, be there in a bit.” was the curt reply. In fact, it was two more hours before a very happy looking Tebba got out of a vehicle at the edge of the roundabout and came thumping towards Sam on his stumpy little legs. “My apologies, Sam. I ran into an old friend after you left the restaurant, and we got together for a bit. If you know what I mean, wink, wink, nudge, nudge!”
     “Did you actually just say, “wink, wink, nudge, nudge?””
     “I did, and I have to tell you that you contacted me on the Net at a really awkward moment. You humans seem to have some kind of innate sense of comedic timing. But it all worked out fine in the end. So, shall we?”  Tebba indicated a large transport square with a wave of his hand. Sam stepped on it, pulling his little wagon behind him.
     He thought, 'Tebba's ship' to his Net and found himself, blinking, standing in a field under a large red sun and a purple sky. Tall grasses bowed in waves under a mild breeze, and tall, thin trees with pure white trunks surrounded the roughly oval field.
     'Vacate transport pad, another request for transport has been received,' appeared before Sam's eyes. He hastily stepped off the pad and Tebba appeared before him.
     “Ah, that's better!” Tebba declared, taking a deep breath and stepping off the pad. Can you smell the liamas? It grows in most biomes on my planet and I always forget how much I miss it until I smell it again.”
     “Tebba, are we on your planet?”
     “What? No! This is just the ship,” Tebba laughed, “actually, this is Loading Bay One. Ask your Net for a map. I've already marked your room. I've got to take care of a few things. We'll get together in a couple of hours. See you later.” Tebba strode off the pad on to a path that went off into the woods. Sam was left standing there, still holding the handle of his wagon. He removed his Net and looked around. The scene was unchanged. The inside of the ship really was set up to mimic the outdoors on Tebba's planet. He put his Net back on, asked for a map and was shocked to learn that the ship was more than 10 kilometers in diameter.
     His “room” was more than a half mile away. He tried to use the transport pad to jump to it, but apparently the only transport pads on the ship were in the loading bays. As he walked towards his room, following a little stream, small animals that he never quite managed to see scampered away from him in the brush. His “room” turned out to be a kind of tent. It was a six meter long half-cylinder with doors at either end. A translucent sort of plastic hung on a frame of what looked like curved sticks tied together with twine. He had to stoop a little, but it was warm and comfortable inside and the “sunlight” from outside made the room bright and cheerful. There were some couch like pieces of furniture, obviously made for the diminutive ursanoids, but he pushed two together and made a comfortable bed. Laying down, he fell instantly asleep.
     He woke up a few hours later, and saw that there was a viewscreen hanging at the far end of the tent. It was displaying an exterior view of the ship. Sam went over to it and discovered that it used touch screen technology and that he was able to virtually explore the entire ship. The ship was spherical, with two large oval patches in the northern hemisphere. They looked like solar panels. The southern hemisphere was dominated by a  thin dark trench which made an arc whose ends bent upwards towards the equator. Sam could not guess the purpose of the trench, perhaps a thermal exhaust port?
     The interior of the ship was a series of huge chambers, each with a different biome or environment. There was even a chamber which was almost entirely filled with a lake. Sam watched on the monitor as a school of some sort of dark blue aquatic creatures, torpedo shaped and about 3 feet long, leapt in and out of the water. He was so engrossed in his virtual exploration of the ship that he was startled by Tebba's message that dinner was ready. It was another quarter mile walk to a chamber in an open area very similar to Storage Bay One. He found Tebba in a structure similar to his tent, but raised up on four poles so that it was open at the sides. Under the curved awning, there were tables, too low for Sam to sit on using the benches. He sat down, cross legged on the ground and was just able to manage.
     “Sorry I can't offer you any flesh,” said Tebba, “my people are herbivores. I think you'll like these tubers, though.” Sam took the bowl that was offered to him and lifted out a tuber. It was very tasty, kind of like barbecue sauce and cream cheese, but as he was eating, Tebba started laughing. “I can't get over the way those five fingers look. It's like evolution gave you the necessary three fingers, then decided to give you an extra one, then said, “What the heck, I'd better stick one more on there to be sure.””
     In response, Sam continued to chew on his tuber, but lifted his pinkie finger as he brought the next bite up to his face. This sent Tebba into paroxysms of laughter. Once Tebba calmed down a bit, Sam asked, “How much longer until we reach Earth?”
     “Two hours, so we have time for a little chat before we arrive.”
     “Well, what I'd like to know most is how your faster than light drive works.”
     “Sorry, I can't tell you that. We are signatories to the Treaty. But I can tell you that there are several ways to travel faster than light, and from what I've seen of your race, you're smart enough to figure them out.”
     “I understand. Can I ask you a personal question, then?”
     “Well, that depends on how personal you get.”
     “Are you rich? This ship is amazing! How much did you earn brokering the deal between the Desispumet and the Ipstf, for example?”
     Tebba laughed. “No, I'm not rich, personally. I “earned” about a quadrillion credits working on that deal, but the way my people handle it is, whenever someone gets some credits, we throw them into a common account that any of us can access whenever we need them. It's the same with this ship. We have thousands of them in orbit around the planet, all different shapes and sizes. Whenever someone needs one, they take it and return it when they're finished. Since this was an “affair of state” I took one of the bigger, more impressive ones.”
     “But, how can your economy work like that? If you want to buy something from someone on your planet, you take money out of a shared account, then pay it to someone who puts it right back in again?”
     Tebba laughed again. “No, that WOULD be funny. No, we don't use credits or money or any sort of imaginary commodity on my planet. Most cultures don't. In fact, only about 20% of the spacefaring civilizations in the galaxy are signatories to the trade treaties.”
     “What?! I thought every race had to join the Treaty Organization.”
     “No, and what a terrible galaxy it would be if they did. Only 20% use imaginary commodities like Credits, but they account for 80% of the conflicts.”
     “But your race is a member?”
     “Yes, we found it necessary to join in order to prevent some of the more unpleasant things that were happening in our section of the galaxy.”
     “Sporedum never mentioned that there was any other way for a species to go.”
     “Sporedum?”
     “He's the Pisen who gave me the bootleg patch.”
     “Oh, the Pisen. It's too bad about them. They've been diasporized. See, that's exactly the kind of problem a lot of races in the treaty organization get into.”
     “Diasporized?”
     “Yes, they lost their home planet in a bad business deal. It was taken over by the T'Kaf. Now the surviving Pisen are scattered around the galaxy. They're reproducing more slowly than they're dying off. It's only a matter of time before they go extinct. There's so few of them left now that most Nets don't even bother to carry Pisen vocabulary bases.” 
     “I have a couple of Pisen friends. They hate the T'Kaf. I thought it was only because the T'Kaf ate a Pisen named Sporedum. Now I see it was more than that.”
     “Yes, it doesn't surprise me that they don't talk about it. What a trauma that must have been. It only happened 10 years ago. The T'Kaf are masters of manipulating imaginary commodities like credits. We've made it a policy never to deal with them directly, but we've had to clean up a lot of messes that they've caused with their wheeling and dealing.”
     “What kind of messes?”
     “Oh, wars, famines, biosphere destruction, creating billions of refugees, that kind of thing. Every now and then, we consider dropping out of the Treaty, because it has races like the T'Kaf. But, for now it looks like we're able to do more good in it than we could out of it.”
     “What do you mean?”
     “Well, today was a perfect example. I couldn't have brokered that deal if we weren't members. On the other hand, if the Ipst and Desipummet weren't members whose economies were based on credits, their differences probably wouldn't have blown up to the point of war in the first place.”
     Sam's head was spinning. For three years he had been agonizing over the details of Earth joining the Treaty Organization. Now it turns out that Earth needn't join at all. Suddenly, a bright red text box appeared in Sam's vision, flashing on and off. 'WARNING! WARNING! Approaching a Treaty-protected world at a pre-FTL technology level. CONTACT IS FORBIDDEN. DETECTION IS FORBIDDEN! Leave system immediately! Severe trade sanctions will result for violations!'
     “Oh Tebba, we have to turn back! I don't want you or your planet to get in trouble with the treaty organization.”
     “Don't worry about it. Look at the Treaty, page 42,762, third paragraph from the bottom, middle sentence.”
     Sam did as he was told and found the line, 'To determine social, cultural, and intellectual suitability, representatives of certified Major Franchises may discreetly contact individual memers of pre-FTL civilizations.'
     “Sam Melton,” droned Tebba in a comically 'official' voice, “as an official representative of the Ursanoid Net Corporation, a Certified Major Franchise, I ask if you would consider opening an Ursanoid Net franchise operation, if and when your planet enters the treaty organization.”
     “Well..., yes,” said Sam. The flashing red text box disappeared.
     “There you go, now I just discreetly return you to your planet and no penalties apply.”
     “You mean, all those penalties and restrictions around contacting pre-faster than light civilzations...”
     “...are just to keep the small fry out so that the major franchises can make first contact. There's probably dozens of franchises operating on your planet right now, though only one person would be the contact person for each franchise at this point.
     “Ah...Here we are, entering orbit around your planet. Where would you like me to set you down? Remember, we have to be “discreet.”” As he spoke, Tebba activated the viewscreen at the end of the dining fly. There was Earth, looking much the same as when he had watched it shrinking away on Sara's viewscreen on his way out of the solar system. From the ship's equatorial orbit, he could see from the tiny white dot of the North Pole to Antarctica's white center and green coastline. There were two hurricanes raging in the Atlantic and one in the Pacific. Between the bands of clouds, he could just make out the tiny bump on the North American continent that was Florida, his home.
     “I think we should set down in the Redwood Forest Preserve in California. That's isolated enough that no one will see us, but not so isolated that I'll have any trouble making it out.”
     “You've got it. Landing pad away...” Sam watched on the monitor as a small white sphere left the ship and headed towards California. A few moments later, he saw a thin streak of light, looking every bit like a shooting star, which ended at one of the few green areas on the North American coast. “Transport pad deployed and operational,” said Tebba.
     They started walking back towards Loading Bay One. Tebba was perched up on top of Sam's sled, balancing between the piles of diverse items Sam had collected during his time, there. “I'd like to come down with you and look at the Earth for a few minutes. How long have you been away?”
     “Sara and I left Earth orbit seven years ago, almost exactly. Wait a minute! Sara!”
     'Communication acknowledged. Go ahead, Sam.'
     “Sara, how long until the last jump gate?”
     'One month, one week, and three days.'
     “Change in destination. After exiting the gate, do not proceed to Leia. Instead, return to Earth.”
     There was a pause. 'Sam, are you teasing me?'
     “No, seriously. Return to Earth. I have found alternate transport and am about to return to the Earth's surface, myself.”
     'Change in destination acknowledged. See you soon, Sam.'
     “...And have some coffee ready when you get here.”
     'Teasing acknowledged.'
     Sam was smiling as he pulled his cart onto the transport pad and thought, 'Earth.'
     It was night time in California, but a full moon shining between the gigantic redwoods cast enough light onto the ground for Sam to see easily. The pad had set down in a clearing surrounded by the huge trees. A little ways down the slope, he could see a single light illuminating the door and one end of a darkened ranger station. He looked over at Tebba, still sitting on the piles of stuff on the cart. The little sentient being was wide-eyed in astonishment. He was craning his neck back, staring up at the trees around them. “Wow...” he said. When he continued speaking, he was still looking up, “ Please excuse me, I had no idea...”
     “Tebba?” Sam asked, but Tebba's gaze remained fixed upwards at the canopy.
     “Yes, but they...” Tebbas said into the air. Sam followed Tebba's gaze, but all he could see were the trees, swaying back and forth in the light wind, dark shapes against a bright moon. “Surely you don't...” said Tebba. There was a long pause. At last Tebba said, “I understand.”
     Tebba lowered his gaze to meet Sam's. Sam was surprised to see a teardrop glinting in the moonlight on Tebba's cheek. “Goodbye Sam, and good luck.” With a wave of his three-fingered hand, he stepped back on the transport pad and was gone.
     Sam stood for a moment, looking around the clearing and up at the trees. “Hello?” he said at last. There was no response on his Net. He folded up the transport pad, put it in his pocket, and started down off the mountain.  
 
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