would know exactly what to do.”
Jack’s consternation grew. “Obey what?” he squeaked.
“Obeisance,” the Mac repeated. “Oh-bay-zance,” it added more slowly, emphasizing each part of the unfamiliar word. “It means a submissive gesture of respect. To be brutally frank, they are worshipping you.”
“Me?” Jack Wong’s voice squealed even higher. Luckily the aliens couldn’t hear his foolish tones, since his suit’s helmet was soundproof. Everything he heard came to his ears through the Mac’s microphones, and when he decided it was time to talk to the fallen aliens his voice would be translated into...into alien…by the on-board AI. “Why would they worship me? I’m just a human from Earth!”
“On occasion,” the Mac informed him, “primitive alien peoples will mistake Earth Culture personnel for religious figures from their own mythologies.”
“What, they think I’m a sky god?”
“Or a demon, ghoul, vampire, harpy, or other monster. They must be disabused of this notion as rapidly as possible. Only after personnel have established themselves as equally mortal can the process of cultural orientation begin.”
“So you’re telling me,” Jack said slowly, stepping cautiously away from the hull toward the stirring aliens, “you’re saying that— That they probably do think I’m a god, but I should tell them I’m not, right?”
“Exactly.” Was there just a trace of impatient scorn in the machine’s voice? “Then we can start carrying out the Primary Heuristic and begin helping these aliens on their rise to near-equality with humankind.”
All the aliens were on their feet by now, milling about. One of them raised a spear in what looked like a menacing gesture.
“Well, all right.” Jack raised his suited head bravely and stepped forward. “Tell them my name is Jack Wong and that I’m very happy to be here on their beautiful planet.”
The sound system in his helmet rang across the clearing in the Mac’s voice, speaking some kind of alien gibberish. The eyes bugged in their buggy heads, and they stared for a brief moment at Jack with open snouts.
This time, it wasn’t so unnerving when they cast themselves on the ground again.
Jack’s scalp was itching, and he wondered if he should take off his helmet and have a good scratch. It seemed the wrong moment for that. “Er, now, look here, fellows,” he said, and the Mac barked and squawked out an instant translation of his words in alien. “Don’t keep doing that, please. It can’t be healthy, slithering around like that in the wet grass.”
The aliens bounded back a few more meters, bowing and scraping and muttering incoherently. So far the Mac had not provided Jack with a translation of anything they were saying. “I am sorry,” it told him, “we shall have to wait until they calm down, I cannot make any sense of that hubbub.”
Jack Wong gazed unhappily at the writhing bodies before him, and wished with all his might that he were back in the Academy, or better still home on Earth. He felt as if he’d burst out bawling any second. Instead, he squared his shoulders and prepared to utter the Traditional Greeting.
“Take me to your leader,” he said, and the Mac coughed out the alien words. “I wish to speak to someone in authority. One of your, uh, Wise Men, Women or Things.” Nervously, he rubbed his gloved hands together.
The aliens conferred. Finally a shrunken oldster wobbled hesitantly toward Jack. Its features were more pitted than the rest, its drool greener, gelatinous. When it spoke, its voice was cracked and wheezy.
The Mac said, “That probably meant something like: ‘O King, live forever!’ But more like a god than a king, if you see what I mean.”
“Oh shit,” Jack moaned, wishing he could rub his nose.
∞
Their village was no more impressive from the ground than it had been through the sensors from orbit. Less than a hundred small grass huts, cunningly built to keep the heavy rain out but hardly beautiful. Still, he told himself, that was only to be expected of a species that had to keep on the move in search of game. Probably they needed to keep cutting back the encroaching jungle, make new clearings that would be swallowed a few months later when they shifted to fresh territory.
Grawnkar, the old alien, apparently their leader, hobbled along half a step behind Jack, and rest trailed after. As they entered the village, other large adult aliens (the mothers? but he didn’t even know how many sexes the aliens had, or if they had any at all) and small squealing alien children emerged from huts and gardens to gape in open-mouthed amazement. In the middle of the scattered huts two structures rose above the rest. Jack was herded toward one, perhaps the chieftain’s home or headquarters. The other was a tall palisade, sturdier than the rest, its round wall made of solid timber stakes with nasty thorns jutting out, its entrance flanked by carved poles showing a certain artistic skill. A temple of some sort?
Jack eyed it with distaste. The very thought of these people’s gods reminded him of how hard it would be to convince them he was not unlike them in his mortality and limitations, despite the difference in their appearance. Human or alien, he’d been taught by Earth Culture instructors, it was all one, really, once they were cleaned up and properly indoctrinated. Yes, he might seem to the poor benighted creatures to have godlike powers. He’d come down out of the sky, after all. But when all was said and done, he was exactly as mortal as they, and he needed to get this idea across to them as quickly as possible. Jack Wong squared his shoulders deliberately, and marched into Grawnkar’s hut.
∞
“You don’t understand,” he told the puzzled aliens for the tenth time. “I’m just like you. Cut me, do I not bleed? Not,” he added hurriedly, “that I want you to cut me. Heck forbid.”
His voice was hoarse, and he was getting hungry. The suit had a store of rations, but they weren’t very tasty. In fact, they tasted like sawdust. You weren’t meant to enjoy lazing around on strange planets in a comfortable survival suit; the idea was to get in, get the job of Contact done, and get out again, all as expeditiously as possible. It was a big galaxy out there, and Contact was a never-ending job. Unfortunately, the aliens seemed to have taken a fancy to Jack. They seemed to regard him as something of a prize. A sort of trophy. Their own little tin god. How embarrassing.
“The sky god mocks us,” said old Grawnkar. “You look nothing like a mortal.”
“But—but—” It was no good. Jack threw up his hands in despair. He’d tried again and again to explain through his translator that small difference in color and size—well, even really big differences, in this case—didn’t amount to the difference between a mortal and god. This just got such a puzzled reception that Jack lapsed into angry silence and chewed his lip for a quarter of an hour.
“I am going to have to turn the cooling system off,” the Mac murmured in his ear. “We are running low on power.”
“You can’t do that!” Jack cried in alarm. “I’ll roast! I’ll boil in my own juices.”
“You can always take your helmet off.”
“Yeah, right, and catch some horrible disease.”
“The chances are very low that an alien disease or fungus could thrive on a human body,”
