Cultural Exchange

By J. F. BONE

How could any race look so ferocious and yet be peaceful—and devise so nasty a weapon?

[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Worlds of If Science Fiction, January 1960. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]

I

I couldn't help listening to the big spaceman sitting alone at the corner table. He wasn't speaking to me—that was certain—nor was his flat, curiously uninflected voice directed at anyone else. With some surprise I realized that he was talking to himself. People don't do that nowadays. They're adjusted.

He noted my raised eye-brows and grinned, his square teeth white against the dark planes of his face. "I'm not psycho," he said. "It's just a bad habit I picked up on Lyrane."

"Lyrane?" I asked.

"It hasn't been entered on the charts yet. Just discovered." His voice was inflected now. And then it changed abruptly. "If you must know, this is ethanol—C2H5OH—and I drink it." He looked at me with an embarrassed expression in his blue eyes. "It's just that I'm not used to it yet," he explained without explaining. "It's easier when I vocalize."

"You sure you're all right?" I asked. "Want me to call a psychologician?"

"No. I've just been certified by Decontamination. I have a paper to prove it."

"But—"

"Draw up a chair," he invited. "I hate to drink alone. And I'd like to talk to somebody."

I smiled. My talent was working as usual. I can't walk into a bar without someone telling me his life history. Nice old ladies buttonhole me at parties and tell me all about their childhoods. Boys tell me about girls. Girls tell me about boys. Politicians spill party secrets and pass me tips.

Something about me makes folks want to talk. It's a talent and in my business it's an asset. You see, I'm a freelance writer. Nothing fancy or significant, just news, popular stuff, adventure stories, problem yarns, romances, and mysteries. I'll never go down in 

  P 1/21 next