Charlie affected a belligerent stance. “Hell, what difference does it make? They never bother anybody. Damned if I see what everyone’s so worried about. I think it’s interesting. You know, we’re all pretty lucky. There isn’t a reporter in this place. If we got on the ball we could make a few bucks. You got a camera, Eric?”
He shook his head, watching the alien’s movements.
“Why would I have a camera on me, Charlie? I’m not on vacation.”
“Right,” said Gabriella. “Why would anybody here have a camera?” From the absence of such activity, it was clear that nobody in the restaurant did.
“Well, I wish it would go away,” Adrienne said. “It’s interrupting the game and spoiling my evening.”
“Don’t let it,” said Charlie, raising his voice slightly.
“Go ahead and watch the game. Is he standing in your way or something?”
It seemed the Syrax reacted to that. It was hard to tell, because its movements were so fluid. There was no sharp jerk of reaction, no abrupt spin of the hairless head. But it changed its course and swung around in a slow curve that brought it right up to their table.
“Damn you, Charlie,” muttered Adrienne, trying to ignore the towering alien.
“What’s there to be worried about?” But as the tall, glowing presence drew near, his voice began to shrink away like a gust of wind that’s rattled a tree and sped on northward. By the time the alien stood within arm’s length of his side, his bravado had fled completely. He kept his eyes averted and picked at his teriyaki with scorched bamboo skewers.
The giant’s gaze focused on Charlie, then swept casually around the table. Eric eyed it boldly, wondering what other functions the creature managed through the small mouth. An odd thought at the moment but a logical one.
They were teleportaic over short distances only; therefore, this one had to have shunted over from the spaceport near Buckeye. Very little orbital traffic made use of that port, most of it coming down at Mohave or much farther east in Metroplex, but evidently there was a recent exception. He wondered where the companion might be. They never descended alone from their ships.
Years ago there was the usual talk about enforcing the restrictions which were designed to keep the aliens within the Designated Areas around the ports. As usual the talk was ignored for the simple reason that such restrictions were unenforceable. You cannot limit the movements of a creature capable of self-teleportation. Besides, such unscheduled alien visitations were infrequent and harmless.
An exploring Syrax had even rescued a little girl’s kitten from a tree once the relationship between human infant and furry quadruped had been hastily explained Such an understanding gesture should have generated some sympathy, but it hadn’t. Eric and Charlie clucked their tongues at such paranoia, as did their more sophisticated friends. It was sad to think that mankind had not advanced beyond such primitive fears. Unfortunately the Syrax, enveloped in mystery and self-imposed silence, did nothing to help alleviate such fears. And then there are those types who can tolerate anything except being ignored.
The Syrax completed its inspection of their table, turned, and walked/drifted across the floor until it stood next to the central bar.
“My God,” Adrienne whispered, “do you suppose it’s going to order something? I’ve never heard one speak.”
“It’s just a voice,” Gabriella told her. “I’ve heard it on tapes. Just a voice, that’s all.”
“Wouldn't that be something?” Charlie was in advertising, and commercially exploitable possibilities were ever uppermost in his thoughts. “Think of the media space: ‘The bar that serves out-of-this-world drinks.’ I’ve got clients who’d murder for an opportunity like this.” He was wringing mental hands. “My kingdom for a camera!”
The Syrax did not speak, nor did it order anything. It continued staring at the opto as it spilled the larger-than-life mayhem of professional football into the restaurant.
“Friendly physical combat,” Eric murmured. “I wonder what it’s thinking?”
“Wonder if it even understands what’s going on,” Charlie added.
“Hard to say. I’d like to sit down and talk to one and find out. Find out about a lot of things.”
“I understand they’re not big on small talk,” said Charlie dryly.
The Syrax turned from the opto and visited another table. Two couples regarded its approach with the usual quiet wariness. One of the women was especially well endowed and not beyond displaying her superstructure proudly. Someone near the bar made a lewd joke, and a few nervous laughs rose above the controlled conversation.
Suddenly it was gone. Flash, crackle-crackle in the air, a funny burnt smell, and no more Syrax. At the table the two women uttered short screams—nothing violent or Halloweenish, just expressions of surprise. That was the end of it. The visit had lasted less than five minutes. It had seemed like several hours.
Instantly, previously paralyzed people began to move, shift in their chairs, readjust clothing and underwear, head for the bathroom, and call hurriedly for fresh drinks.
Philadelphia completed a thirty-five-yard pass and someone let out a loud groan, keying conversation to return to normal. It was resumed with a rush and a mixture of excitement and relief. The headwaiter grabbed his phone, undoubtedly to contact a local opto station. Soon one or more news people would be in the room, interviewing like mad. “And what was your reaction to the alien’s appearance, Ms.…? Just look into the pickup, please.”
Some would lie and others would tell the truth. The most photogenic of both groups would be the ones treated to an appearance on the opto. Eric thought highly of the chances of the woman at the last table. It would be a secondary item on the opto, and the all-news channels would get a couple of days’ mileage out of it. Then it would be forgotten.
Much of it was forgotten already as the game progressed. By halftime Phoenix had come back to lead by a field goal. Eric had finished his second hamburger and fries, and they were all working on fried ice cream when conversation in the bar shushed for the second time. Julio Ortega was on the opto, and the mood in the restaurant was one of expectancy.
Every week during the halftime of the major game, a special presentation was made back in the national studios as the names of those who’d qualified for the GATE were announced. It was a matter of greater interest than the game.
"Wonder who bought the GATE this time,” Charlie was saying.
“Well, it wasn’t you and it wasn’t me.” Gabriella took a long drag on her cigarette. “I wonder why anyone bothers to watch?” But she was watching, along with everyone else in the room.
“Hey, you never know,” Charlie countered. “They pick ordinary citizens all the time. Somebody has to process the garbage on the colonies.”
“Sure they do,” said Adrienne, “but they don’t have much need for ad execs.”
“They don’t go on profession alone,” he argued. “Sometimes psychological profile’s enough to get you in." Gabriella quieted him. They were announcing the chosen.
Three people bought the GATE this time, Ortega informed his listeners. The lucky ones were Sheila Onlouyo of Nairobi, Kenya; Major Onapura, of Colombo, Sri Lanka; and Attali Mataya of the Pacific Confederation, Tongalevu.
A few groans of mock disappointment rose from the onlookers. The odds against buying the GATE were enormous, though Charlie was right when he claimed anyone could be picked. It was a lottery to end all lotteries, with a trip to paradise as reward. Or to Eden and Garden, specifically.
Today it had gone pretty wide of the local mark. Not a single North American. All Old Worlders except the last.
Ortega went on, giving the backgrounds of the fortunate trio. Two men, one woman—the first an agricultural specialist, the second a programmer, the third a biofisheries engineer.
“Just your average folks,” Gabriella announced pointedly. “Sure, they pick ordinary people. Sure they do.”
