The VMR Theory (v1.1) Read Online Free PDF Page A

they’ll have major diplomatic problems—”
    “Be sure and chisel that on the headstone.”
    “—so they have every reason to treat us politely, at least until they catch us at something overt.”
    Rosalee and Wyma Jean ignored the exchange and eased us into our assigned berth until the magnetic field brought us to a stop.
    As soon as we had a tight seal on the boarding ramp, Catarina, Bunkie, and I put on breathing masks and stepped briskly through the ozone bath to the station’s quarantine area, where a big sign in English and Sklo’kotax read HAPPY STAY KLO’KLOTIXA. FOR THE TWELFTH FIVE-YEAR PLAN, YOU MUST MAINTAIN GOOD SPEED AND RHYTHMS!
    “Catchy jingle,” Catarina observed.
    I nodded. “It sounds like something my ex-wife would dream up to sell toothpaste. Dam! They sure like it warm here.”
    “Sir, it’s not the heat, it’s the humidity,” Bunkie explained.
    Barefoot customs inspectors were waiting for us, dressed in the tight leather collars that symbolized their service to the state and reminded me of Christmas in San Francisco. Around the galaxy, creatures designed to fill the same environmental niches end up looking similar, and through a quirk of nature, the Macdonalds came out looking more like human beings than they probably wanted to.
    They had four-fingered hands, plantigrade feet, bottleshaped lower abdomens, and cartilaginous internal bracing, which allowed them a reasonably upright stance. Their goggle eyes were pushed together for good stereoscopic vision, and they had fleshy nasal bulbs for Jacobson’s organs on their faces, ranging in size from a cute, pug one on the young female scrubbing the floor to dipsomaniacal monstrosities on the males.
    I was immediately struck by the way their jug ears artistically framed their low-slung foreheads. Protective oil gave their grayish skin a glossy sheen, while modified gill slits in the folds of skin over the throat allowed them to breathe, although I noticed they kept their mouths open for maximum respiratory efficiency. In short, it appeared that nature had conspired to make Macdonalds the butt of every Polish joke known to humankind.
    As we stepped up to the desk, the two officials wearing the fanciest outfits moved forward together and almost bumped into each other. Body language among bipeds being something of a universal constant, it was readily apparent which of the two handled customs on a regular basis, and which of the two outranked the other.
    While they were sorting it out I whispered to Catarina, “Secret police?”
    “Maybe. The Macdonalds have a Navy Intelligence Service, an Army Intelligence Agency, a Joint Army-Navy Intelligence Board, a Bureau of Planetary Security, a Central Security Service, the Secret Police, and the Special Secret Police, so it’s sometimes difficult to tell the players without a scorecard.”
    The flashier of the two interrupted in singsong English, “Please present your papers. Do you have anyt’ing to declare?”
    Macdonald palates can’t accommodate a “th” sound. “We have nothing to declare,” I announced cheerfully. Bunkie handed over our papers, and the two Macdonalds spent a few minutes with their tongues hanging out scanning our documents for flaws. Finally, the little one opened and closed his eyes rapidly three or four times, which was the equivalent of a shake of the head, and fancy-pants reluctantly said, “Your papers are in order. Tee atmosphere on t’is space station is hazardous to your well-being. Breat’ing masks are available in tee gift shop.”
    “Uh, thanks.” I pointed to the mask I was wearing. “But we’re already equipped.” Although Alt Bauernhof’s atmosphere has a respectable oxygen content, it also has more carbon dioxide and hydrogen sulfide than is healthy, not to mention what Macdonalds smell like.
    Clearly annoyed that I was screwing with his memorized lines, he glowered at me and hitched up his sagging trousers with a free hand. “You will report to