Maximum Warp
Chapter 7: Prime Directive

“Oh, Lord. I’m totally screwed, aren't I?” Janet, who had just emerged from her shower, comfortably dressed in a sleeveless t-shirt and shorts, was looking with dismay at the coffee, toast, eggs, bacon and fresh orange juice I had laid out for our breakfast.

“What?” I said, sounding innocent, but knowing I was guilty.

“Jessica, I’ve known you for longer’n you’ve existed, remember? If you’re being this nice, I’m screwed. I just don’t know which way yet.” She sat down and took a long, fortifying pull on her industrial-strength coffee, never taking her eyes off me.

“I can’t just do something nice for you, out of simple gratitude and the goodness of my heart?” I was working on a sweet and innocent look. It hadn’t felt convincing yesterday when I tried it on Officer Wolf, and Janet lacked the biologically-motivated reasons why he might have been willing to let my subpar performance slide.

As she proceeded to demonstrate. “Can you? Sure. Would you? Well, you might, but only if you thought about it. Which you probably wouldn’t, ‘cuz you’re always noodlin’ about twenty thousand other things. So . . . why are you butterin’ me up like a bad French pastry?”

“Why a bad French pastry?”

She looked at me like I’d lost my mind. “Nekultury bumpkin! ‘Cuz good French pastries already have enough butter to kill you twice over. Now don’t try to change the subject!”

I sighed and gave up my attempt at sweet innocence. It clearly needed more work. “Okay, okay! I’m feeling guilty. I pulled you into this . . . .”

She cut me off. “Whoa, there! I didn’t get pulled into anythin.’ I jumped with both feet. I had nothin’ planned for this summer, and I’ll confess I was kinda mopin’ about that. I wouldn’t have missed this for an all-expenses paid trip to Madagascar!”

“Madagascar! Why on earth would you want to go there?”

“Lemur fetish. But let’s stay on task here, Jessica.” She took a bite of her breakfast – she’s a practical woman and there’s no sense letting a perfectly good bribe go to waste – before adding, “What’s got your panties in a wad?”

“Well, for starters,” I said, “Let’s talk about Officer Wolf. Like Abel suggested before we left, everything’s fine right now, but only because there’s nothing to show I’m missing. James. Whatever. But come August, when ‘James’ doesn’t show up, everything changes. And because I was thoughtless enough to park my car in your garage and cut you that check, you are probably the one and only suspect.”

“Don’t be borrowin’ trouble. We’ve got six weeks. Anything can happen. I mean, look at what's changed in the last six weeks!”

I thought about that. Could I ask the aliens to change me back, assuming we were somehow able to complete the mission? Did I want to?

I didn’t, and that took no thought at all. I felt better than I ever had . . . and, I thought with a touch of guilty recollection, a whole lot sexier. My new body was amazing, and if the changes went deeper than that — and they did — I was learning to adjust. I suddenly had a future again, and it looked just as bright as the damned dean was always blathering about.

Going back to my old life might be the hardest thing I've ever done. But if that’s what it took to keep Janet out of jail, it would also be the easiest decision I’ve ever made.

I decided not to raise that possibility. Instead I said, “True, though we should work on a plan to deal with it. But the other issue is the aliens themselves.” I showed her the text I had received this morning.

“Sombitch!” she said. “You know, it shoulda felt real before this, what with your turnin’ into a human Venus Flytrap an’ all. But somehow this brings it home.”

I nodded. Certainly it felt like an immediate problem now, where before it seemed like a hypothetical. “Janet, we don’t even have a good plan for how to get to talk to someone about buying uranium. I don’t know how the aliens will react to that. I want to make sure you’re not injured.”

She looked at me steadily as she finished chewing on a bite of toast. With unusual precision, she picked up her glass of juice, took a sip, and set it back down. It made a sharp, final “rap” as it hit the table top, firm as a judge’s gavel. “Well, that explains the nice breakfast. You’re thinkin’ of goin’ to meet with the termites alone, aren’t you?” She didn’t sound angry, or hurt. Really almost . . . curious? Clinical?

I wasn’t sure where she was coming from. “I just don’t want to see you get hurt. I’ve already put you in danger!”

“Jessica. Honey. You need to listen, ‘cuz I’m only gonna say this once.” Her voice was soft. Conversational. “You – James, Jessica, whatever – have been my closest friend for thirty years. Might’ve been more’n that, once, if you’d ever got your nose outta your books long enough to notice me. There is no chance – none, zero, zilch – that I’m gonna let you walk into danger while I sit at home wonderin’ what’s happenin’ to you. I’ll be damned if I play Aunt Polly to your Tom Sawyer!”

I was still trying to process what she had just said when she barked out, “YOU GOT THAT, GIRL?”

I flinched, and found to my dismay that my shoulders had involuntarily hunched, as if to ward off an attack. I tried to take a deep breath, causing my ample bust to heave, but it was too ragged to unjangle my nerves. I blurted out, “What do you mean, “might’ve been more?”

“What I said!” Now she sounded exasperated. “The supply of men who can handle a smart, opinionated woman with multiple advanced degrees is depressingly finite, and I’m a demandin’ woman.” Her face and tone softened. “You were about the only one who mighta made the cut.”

I just gaped at her. “I had no idea . . . .” All of those years. All of those long, fascinating conversations. “You might have said something!”

She looked astonished, then amused. She started to chuckle, which developed into a guffaw. Pretty soon she was laughing so hard she was holding her sides.

I was, I admit, indignant. I tried to glower, then remembered that she had said my old glower on my new face looked “cute.” Officer Wolf had gnashed his teeth – one of those beautiful Old English words whose silent, vestigial letters serve no present purpose other than to remind us of their antiquity – but that had looked foolish even with his naturally stern visage. As Jessica, I was reduced to squeaking, “What?!!!” I suppose I might have stamped my delicate foot, but I couldn’t imagine how that would help.

“I’m just imaginin’ what James Wainwright would have done if I’d sidled up to him in the faculty lounge and offered to give him a personal tutorial on the Scarlet Letter! ‘Hey big boy! Let me show you my Hawthornes!’” Her laughter continued unabated.

“What would people have thought!”

She finished chuckling and just shook her head. “Jessica-James, even I figured out that I didn’t – and shouldn’t – give a shit what other people thought about how I lead my life. I was a late bloomer, so it took me ‘til I was thirty. Why you still care is beyond me.”

I looked down, feeling the flush return to my cheeks. Remembering. Thinking hard. Finally I met her eyes again. They were no longer full of laughter, but there was, I thought, affection mixed in with the exasperation. “I don’t know what to say. I was oblivious. I was always so focused on my scholarship . . . .”

“Oh, my God! Stop the presses! Really?!!”

This time, even I had to chuckle, though more in rue than in mirth. “Yeah, I guess that was pretty obvious. But . . . there was never anyone else, Janet. Just scholarship. I thought . . . well. I thought it was enough. All I needed. Or wanted.”

“How ‘bout now?” she asked, her voice soft.

I looked down again, idly stirring my black coffee with a spoon, the deep red polish on my nails glowing softly in the morning sunlight. “Just before that alien showed up, I was staring at my campfire, feeling sorry for myself. All my ‘penetrating’ insights, my ‘brilliant’ books and ‘seminal’ articles, didn’t matter. The dean wasn’t going to kick me out, but she’d moved on. The new people were the future, I was just an old and increasingly grouchy relic.”

“Well-spoken, though,” she said with a twinkle. “Measured. Thoughtful.”

“Qualities that would be a great comfort to me in my solitary retirement, I’m sure.”

“So, you’re not gonna try to plant your lovely new rump in your old endowed chair?”

“How could I teach, looking like this?”

“Like I said before, it’d do wonders for enrollment!”

I chuckled dutifully, then said, “No. Student and teacher, I gave forty years to the academy. It’s enough. If I get to start over . . . .”

I fell silent. There were, after all, a whole lot of barriers between where I was and “starting over.”

Janet sensed my thought. “Then we’d better make sure you get another chance, Ebineezer. And one way we’re gonna boost your odds is that I’m goin’ with you!”

I moved to protest, but she cut me off.

“I’m not lookin’ forward to retirement any more’n you were. Even apart from how I feel about you, this is a great adventure. A once-in-lifetime chance to make a real difference in this world. Somethin’ neither of us has managed in sixty fucking years. Make that mostly non-fucking years, if you follow me. If you make me miss it, I’ll never forgive you!”

“But . . .”

“I’ll fix you up with Wolf!”

“Janet . . . “

“No . . . I’ll fix you up with Quibble, so you’ll really be Mrs. Rabbit!”

“Janet . . . “

“Or a Goddamned tree frog!”

“Janet!”

She finally paused her tirade long enough to say “What?” in a voice overloaded with suspicion.

“Will you come with me? I don’t think I can manage without you.”

She grinned. “Maybe if you ask nice. Use your big words!”

And that was how we found ourselves at Janet’s house three days later, waiting for the aliens to arrive.

* * * * *

“I wonder whether we had the coordinates right.” It was 7 p.m. and we still hadn’t heard from the aliens. Since they had asked for “coordinates,” we had texted back 42.34107° N, 72.66151° W, rather than a street address. But we were just trusting that would mean something to the aliens. We also had to trust Google Maps to be right about things like that. When it comes to AI, I’m not a naturally trusting soul.

“They texted you before. They know how to reach you,” Janet said, with more patience than I probably deserved. It had not been the first time I’d made a similar observation over the course of the past three hours.

“Hi, Honey, I’m home,” Ensign Worm said as he walked into the living room from the kitchen. It hadn’t even occurred to me that he wouldn’t ring the front door bell. But why would he think that made any more sense than just walking in the back door?

He was still wearing his Walter Cronkite suit, but he appeared to have repaired the jacket and acquired different footwear. Flip-flops were definitely an improvement of the red pumps he had sported when I had seen him last, but, like his greeting, it was . . . not yet ready for prime time.

I was on my feet without having even thought about it. “Ensign Worm! Uh . . . welcome back? Please come in and meet my colleague, Professor Janet Seldon.”

Worm stood his ground for a moment, looking at me carefully. “I think . . . we satisfied your design specifications, yes?”

I found myself blushing. “I can’t complain,” I demurely demurred.

“Since we talk, I study this ‘aesthetics.’ It is matter of proportion, yes?”

“That’s part of it,” I said cautiously.

“I think maybe your backside was not right proportion? Maybe large too much?”

“Wait . . . WHAT! Are you saying I have a fat ass?!!!”

Worm’s accent altered completely. “Well shucks, Ma'am. If that's all that's been botherin' you, ferget it. You're just pleasingly plump.”

“Plump!!!”

Reverting to his flatter intonation, he asked, “Do you find your breasts are maybe too large as well?”

Janet took this moment to interject. “Said no man ever.”

I tried manfully – womanfully? – to speak through gritted teeth. “We are not going to debate the aesthetic merits of my new proportions!”

Worm continued to look at me curiously, before saying, “I should like to discuss this aesthetics further. Perhaps another day. To determine if mistakes we made. ‘A wise man once said, “Great hazards accompany innovation.”’”

“Which wise man?” Janet asked.

“Pete Malloy,” Worm responded.

I was finding myself getting extremely annoyed, and platitudinous quotes from Adam-12 weren’t improving my temper. “In reference to my body, which is just fine thank you very much, what do you mean by that?”

Worm blinked twice, slowly, more like a barn owl than a human. “As a matter of fact I don't even know what it means. It's just one of those things that gets in my head and keeps rolling around in there like a marble.”

Janet was watching me closely and raised an eyebrow.

Time to sit on my annoyance. Worm’s shifting speech patterns made conversation difficult. When he was quoting something wholesale from old movies or TV shows – as he had clearly just done again – his speech was relatively fluid and colloquial (if sometimes anachronistic), but often was just a bit off the point he wanted to make. When he struck out on his own and attempted to formulate original sentences, his grammar was poor, his syntax quirky and his affect was flatter. But, he was generally easier to follow from a logical perspective.

“Ensign Worm,” I said, “It may be easier for us to communicate if you don’t try to use quotes from the transmissions you monitored. Your sentence structure and word choice aren’t perfect, but we can usually follow them and we’ll ask for clarification if we can’t. Is that acceptable?”

“My language is now much excellent, yes?” he asked. It should have sounded hopeful, and it did, a bit, but for his overall flat affect.

“You’ve made progress,” I said cautiously. “But I wouldn’t enter into any delicate negotiations on your own just yet. Remember, I’m a language expert. When it comes to your language and patterns of speech and thought, that means that I know what I don’t know. Others may make assumptions that aren’t accurate.”

He appeared to consider that answer for a moment before replying. “So, are you ready to start our negotiation?”

“Why don’t you sit down and we can discuss it,” I said.

“Humans think more easily when they are not upright?”

I wasn’t sure how to answer that one. Janet tried. “We tend to find sittin’ is more comfortable for talkin’. When we’re physically active, we prefer standin’ up.” Her eyes developed a dangerous twinkle and she added, “Or, sometimes, lyin’ down.”

Mercifully, Worm was not diverted by Janet’s innuendo. He moved to a chair and sat, hindquarters barely touching the edge, back erect. He looked about as comfortable as a felon on a witness stand. “Professor Janet Seldon, are you a seller of weapons-grade uranium?” he asked politely.

“What! No!!!” she said, horrified.

“If I may?” I said as I sat on the couch across from the ensign. “Professor Seldon is a colleague and friend. I’ve asked for her help in working to facilitate your negotiations.”

“Ah,” Worm said. “We need you, and you need her. Just like Kirk and Spock.”

“More like Abbott and Costello,” Janet growled.

“Who?” asked Worm.

“First base,” she replied.

“STOP!” I was having a hard enough time following Worm! “To bring us back to the subject at hand,” I said, throwing a glare at an unrepentant Janet, “let’s talk about your purchase, and what sorts of things you are prepared to offer in exchange, and how best to go about reaching the people who will need to make the decisions.”

“The transmissions show people selling things for ‘bucks.’ We can give you many of these ‘bucks.’”

“You plannin’ on robbin’ a few banks?” Janet asked.

“No!” Worm responded. “The transmissions show this is not right with your rules, yes? We are not rule breakers!”

“How are you planning to get the ‘bucks,’ I asked, curious.

“Oh! We can make them most easy. Manufacture . . . no, not correct. ‘Print,’ yes?”

“That's . . . also not legal,” I said. “Against our rules. And might cause our economy to collapse.” I waved my hands airily, implying all manner of dire consequences without the necessity of detail. I’m a linguist, not an economist.

Worm, mercifully, was solely focused on the part I was most confident about. “Not legal?”

“Nope. Counterfeiting. Not legal anywhere.”

“We . . . oh. We can’t do that. We are rule followers.” Worm uttered this last sentence with conviction.

Fascinating. “We were thinking more about technology, honestly,” I said.

“How would you think dishonestly about technology?” Worm inquired, sounding genuinely curious.

“Sorry,” I said. “Figure of speech. Let me rephrase. We think you need to offer know-how that you have and we don’t. You’ve managed interstellar travel. You know things we haven’t figured out yet.”

“Wouldn’t that violate the Prime Directive?”

“What?” I asked, flummoxed.

“What, what?” Worm repeated.

Janet saved me. “It’s another reference to Star Trek, Jessica.”

“I almost never saw it,” I said, exasperated. “Help me out here!”

“In the show, Star Fleet wasn’t allowed to interfere in the natural development of less advanced societies. Including by introducing advanced tech.”

“Ah. Not a problem,” I said. “We don’t actually have a ‘prime directive.’”

“No?” Worm sounded disappointed. “But we do.”

My eyes grew wide and my face flushed. Holy shit! These bastards had tech that could improve the lives of everyone on earth, but it would be withheld for our own good? I’m guessing that damned TV show never explored how “less advanced societies” felt about Starfleet’s “prime directive!”

I forced myself to swallow my indignation. What he was saying wasn’t really all that different from the conversations that Janet and I had on the subject of life-saving or life-extending tech that could bring on massive overpopulation and a complete collapse of the biosphere. The difference was, aliens were making the decisions!

I decided I had better put that issue aside for a moment and work on what I hoped would be an easier part of the problem. “I am going to need something to show people who make decisions about uranium stockpiles, to convince them that they really are dealing with an advanced extraterrestrial civilization. Some advanced tech would be very helpful for that purpose.”

Worm said, “Not a problem, if we give something you cannot copy . . . . But we did, yes? You cannot change age, shape, organs for species replenishment.”

“Won’t work,” I responded. “I can’t prove I ever looked different than I do now.”

“You did your work a bit too well,” Janet added.

“But I do have an idea,” I said. “Do you have ways of storing energy for later use?”

“Of course,” Worm responded.

I had been drinking a can of Diet Coke when Worm had walked in. I pointed at it and said, “how much energy could you store in something that size? How long would it take to charge it? How much would it weigh? And, could it be made with materials that are readily available on this planet?”

“Dammit, Jim, I’m not an engineer,” he said flatly.

“It’s ‘Jessica,’ thanks to you folks – And I’d like to discuss that sometime, by the way – but I don’t need the exact engineering specifications right now. Just a general idea.”

“We did not change the name you call yourself,” Worm said.

“No, but . . . well. Later. Anyhow. You see the vehicles we use for transportation – our ‘cars’? Some of them use stored electric power for locomotion. With a compact energy storage device like I described, how far could one of our cars go?”

“I do not know exact.”

“Roughly?”

“To the large ‘city,’ at least,” Worm said, after thinking a moment.

“Boston?” I asked.

“I do not think that name. No. Where Archie lives.”

“Archie?”

“Yes, yes. And Eedit and Glow-ria and Meathead.”

“Oh!” said Janet. “You mean Archie Bunker. All in the Family. They lived in New York.”

It was just what I was hoping for! Better confirm it. “You could drive from here to New York City with a power storage device the size of that can?”

“Yes. Possibly further. ‘Actual mileage may vary.’”

“Okay!” I said. “So, here’s my idea. Go back to the ship. See if you can manufacture a device that fits the size of that can, and can be accessed by one of our plugs.” I held up the charger plug for my iPhone. “Make it tamper-proof, so we can’t take it apart and figure out how it works.”

“How will this device help our mission?”

“We’ll take it to experts and have them test it. If it can store a lot of power and is portable, that’s going to get high-level attention fast.” Without saying it, my mind added, “I hope!”

“Why don’t we land our ship in your Capital? Get attention, yes?”

I shuddered. Visions of missiles, bombs, tanks and drones . . . . “Yes, but not the kind of attention you want! You’ve been wise to keep your presence largely secret. And . . . non-threatening. Your mission will be more likely to succeed if you keep it that way.”

Worm considered that. “All right. The Swarm Leader would not want trouble with natives. So . . . your people test this device. Then what?”

“That’ll get us a hearing with people who make decisions. Then we figure out what you’re willing to trade that they might want bad enough to give up some of the most dangerous and expensive material on the planet. I warn you now, it’s going to take something big.”

“Our rules – our ‘Prime Directive’ – must be followed,” Worm cautioned.

Janet had been deep in thought while I worked on getting a powerful battery out of the alien. Now she said, “You know, the Enterprise crew often found ways around the ‘Prime Directive . . . .”

“Rules are . . . rules,” Worm replied, sounding puzzled.

“Of course they are,” I said soothingly, following Janet’s lead. “But . . . the scope of a rule, as applied to a particular circumstance . . . that needs careful thought, doesn’t it? Or the rule might be misapplied.”

“I do not understand this thought,” Worm said, now sounding uncomfortable.

“I think I know someone who might be able to help you understand it,” I said.

Janet sat bolt upright. “You wouldn’t!”

“I don’t see why not.” Turning to Worm, I asked, “Ensign, does your society have lawyers?”

“Like Perry Mason? No. We do not understand ‘lawyers.’ Rules are obeyed.”

“I knew I liked you people,” Janet said.

Talking over her, I said, “You’re in for a real treat.”

Worm looked at me, then he looked at Janet. “I see conflict, yes? How do we forward go?”

Janet looked at me, shook her head and shrugged her shoulders.

“Can you tell me exactly what your ‘prime directive’ prohibits?” I asked.

“Not . . . I do not have right words in your language.”

“Okay,” I said. “Go back to the ship. While you’re making the battery, get me as complete and accurate a statement of your prime directive as you can in English. Then we’ll sit down with the lawyer.”

“This will work? You are not yanking on my foot?”

“I’m doing the best I can.”

“Maybe someone else better does?” Worm asked.

It was a shrewd negotiating move. I answered as honestly as I could. “Maybe. I don’t know. But it’ll take time, whoever you talk to. Unless you just steal what you want.”

“‘I am not a crook,’” he said with finality. My confidence level would have gone up if he’d quoted someone else.

Worm stood up. “I have concerns about plan. But will speak my elders and we decide.” Without waiting for any response, he walked purposefully to the kitchen and out the back door.

When we were certain Worm was gone, Janet said, “You sure about this, girl?”

I nodded. “Absolutely. They want weapons-grade uranium, and they're acting like the guys who bought Manhattan with some colored beads! If we can make a battery as powerful and compact as that, it’ll change the world. Maybe save it. To them, it’s just a formula!”

“You’re not worried about unintended consequences?”

“Of course I am. But inaction has unintended consequences too.”

“Okay,” she said, drawing out the word. “But . . . inflicting lawyers on an innocent, unsuspecting society? Is that fair?”

“Janet,” I said, “We don’t have a ‘Prime Directive.’ Besides, they’re the ‘advanced society’ here, right? They can bloody well look after themselves!”

“If you say so,” she said, sounding dubious.

* * * * *

We called Justin Abel’s office first thing the next morning and got an appointment for 11:30. I excused myself and started to get ready.

This was important. As Janet had said, we had a chance to really make a difference for all humanity. Finding a way around the alien’s ‘prime directive’ would be the key.

But at the same time . . . I found myself remembering Able’s muscular build, his mobile face and penetrating eyes. Eyes that had been drawn to me, time and time again. It hadn’t felt remotely creepy. To the contrary . . . .

With these conflicting thoughts in my mind, I started to get dressed. Immediately, I gravitated to a black bra and panty set that looked and felt sexy as a war-time pin-up. My breasts felt even more full, and my nipples even more sensitive, as I settled them into their satin-lined cups. I rolled black silk stockings up each leg, marveling at the sensations that rippled from my smooth and sensitive skin. No, I did not want my old life back!

My eyes lingered on the low-cut red dress that had pride of place in my closet. That would certainly get Abel’s attention! The thought of it gave me a shiver. But it was too early in the day, and I wasn’t going out clubbing, for God’s sake! The professor in me shouted, “Focus, Girl!!!”

I settled on a poly-rayon knit skirt that showed off my trim waist and rounded posterior and was just modest enough, while still showing plenty of leg. I added a white camisole and a cream-colored silk top with a deep “v” neckline. “V” for victory!

I took care with both my hair and my makeup, working to emphasize my lustrous eyes and full lips. Three inch black pumps and the barest hint of scent completed the ensemble. Jessica was ready for battle.

I left my room to find Janet in the living room, still in her sweats. She looked me over carefully and an enormous grin split her face. “The bear spray’s still with your hikin’ gear. You may want to bring it along. Just in case you run into somethin’ dangerous. You know. Wild animals . . . stray males . . . .’”

“You’re not coming?” It came out almost as a wail.

“Three’s a crowd, girl,” she smirked.

“Janet!!! This is important! I’m not going out on a date!”

She raised an eyebrow in sardonic salute. “I’m liking the uniform, workin’ girl.”

I couldn’t help it. I stamped my foot.

She giggled.

“Janet, we can’t afford to screw this up. Please!!!”

She stopped smiling and leaned forward. “No, we can’t. You can’t. Jessica, you gotta learn how to walk in those heels and still talk sense. How to be comfortable with your sexuality without becomin’ a sex object. All teasin’ aside, you look fine. Abel’s a cutie, no doubt about it. It’s okay that you notice that. But, you’ve got a job to do. Don’t forget it.”

“But you won’t back me up?”

“You don’t need trainin’ wheels, girl. Get the job done . . . and have fun doin’ it!!” She got up and gave me a hug, which I suddenly found myself returning fiercely.

Because I didn’t have a driver’s license that would convince anyone, Janet dropped me off at Abel’s office and drove off to run some errands. With some trepidation, I walked to the front door, taking the small steps that my tight skirt and heels demanded.

Abel’s assistant – I didn’t know whether she was a receptionist, a secretary, or something else altogether – showed me into the conference room where we had met with Officer Wolf. “Mr. Abel will be with you in just a moment,” she assured me. “Would you like some tea or coffee while you wait?”

Uncharacteristically, I asked for some tea. It might settle my nerves. Just after Ms. Somers dropped it off and left, Abel rapped on the door and walked in.

I rose gracefully – I thought I was graceful, anyway – and walked around the oak conference table, offering him my hand. “Good morning, Mr. Abel. Thanks for seeing me on short notice again.” Although my voice was both higher and lighter than it had ever been, it was low and resonant for a woman – a rich contralto.

Able hadn’t moved from the doorway, and his gaze fixed on my face as if it had been nailed there so as not to stray towards forbidden pastures. “Ms. . . . Lapine, is it?” He took my hand carefully, like he might break it, and shook it gently. But firmly.

“Well, prolly not,” I said. “But I haven’t come up with anything else yet. You can call me Jessica for now.”

“Please have a seat,” he said. He turned to close the door, thought better of it, and left it ajar. He sat across the table from me with his back to the open door. I could hear Ms. Somers buzzing around in the waiting area.

“If you don’t mind, I think I’d better call you by your last name. Any last name!”

I cocked my head and said, “Certainly, I can come up with something. Is the use of first names considered unprofessional?”

“If I was just talking to some sixty-year old guy who teaches at Gryphon, it probably wouldn’t matter. But when I’m in a conference room with someone who looks like she is seventeen and is . . . ah . . . easy on the eye, then . . . yes.”

“I see.” Interesting. Remembering something Janet had said the other day, I said, “Why don’t you call me James. Ms. James. If that helps you.”

“Seriously? Jesse James?”

I felt my face flush again. “Scarlett” might have been the best last name after all. But I was annoyed rather than embarrassed. “Anyone who tries to call me ‘Jesse’ is unlikely to make that mistake twice, Mr. Abel!”

Despite my youthful and innocent appearance, there was enough starch in my answer to get through to him. He looked ever so slightly abashed. “I apologize, Ms. James. That was rude of me.”

Better, I thought.

“What brings you here today,” he asked, trying to get past the awkwardness.

“We’ve encountered a bit of a problem, and we thought that you might be able to help. It might or might not come up, but if it does, it’ll happen soon, and I wanted to lay the groundwork now.”

“Charmingly mysterious.” It was very clear that I had his undivided attention, but I wasn’t confident he was focused on what I was saying. Still, he said, “Go on.”

“Well. The aliens who altered my body have come back. Professor Seldon and I met with one of them yesterday evening. They want to arrange a purchase of some rare materials. We – I – agreed to take their proposal to the appropriate authorities. But there’s a catch.”

“Isn’t there always?”

I squelched my annoyance at his pose of amused detachment. “The aliens have advanced technologies that could be very valuable – very beneficial – here on earth. I don’t want us to trade valuable materials for the equivalent of tchotchkes. But they apparently have a rule about providing advanced technologies to backwards civilizations.”

“The Prime Directive,” he said. “Naturally.”

Was I the only person who hadn’t watched that damned TV show? “Why do you say ‘naturally?’”

He paused. Thought a moment. Then said, “I withdraw the comment, and apologize. So, they have this rule. What are you looking for?”

“A way around it. Apparently they are a highly law-abiding society. As the one we spoke to yesterday put it, they are ‘rule followers.’ They . . . ah . . . don’t actually have lawyers.”

That seemed to impress him. “How original! They’ve never encountered a lawyer before? Oh my God! What an opportunity!” It was like he’d just heard a siren or something.

“Well, about that,” I said, repressively, “Professor Seldon wasn’t sure it was completely fair of me to ask that they meet with you to discuss the scope of their rule, but I figured they could look after themselves. And . . . this is important. For our whole species.”

He leaned back in his chair and studied me for a long moment. “You really do believe this,” he said. Seeing something dangerous in my expression, he said, “Please, I’m not being insulting. Or, rather, I’m not trying to be insulting, which isn’t really the same thing. People tell me stories all the time, including clients. I constantly have to evaluate people’s truthfulness. But – and I apologize for being blunt – the fact that you believe it doesn’t make it true.”

“You mean, I could be the victim of a scam.”

“Yes. Another possibility is that you’re delusional.” Seeing my expression darken again, he hastily added, “Just playing devil’s advocate, you understand.”

“Maybe you’d be a better person if you played advocate for someone else!”

“Possibly,” he acknowledged. “But I wouldn’t be a better lawyer, and you aren’t paying $300 an hour for a ‘person.’”

I reached into my purse and flipped him my drivers’ license. “That’s me,” I said. “Or was, up until a month ago. I have sixty years of memories to go with the photo. If I was scammed, the scammers are the functional equivalent of an advanced species. And there’s no way that I could ‘delude’ myself into a working knowledge of Old English, Norman French, Greek, Classical Latin, Church Latin and Hochdeutch, with a smattering of other languages besides.”

“Seriously?” His skepticism was as thick as tar on a cold morning.

Skepticism was one thing, but mulishness was something else. I lifted my chin. “Try me,” I challenged.

He regarded me for a moment, his dark eyes hooded. “What’s the first line of the Canterbury Tales?”

“Bad question,” I replied. “‘Whan that Aprille with his shoures soote / The drooghte of March hath perced to the roote . . . .’ I’m an expert in linguistics, Mr. Abel, not literature. But Chaucer is significant to both disciplines, and I co-authored a monograph on it ten years or so ago with Geoff Harrison down in Annapolis.”

“Nice,” he said, approvingly. “Though obviously not conclusive. Why was it a bad question?”

“Oh, because lots of people would know that quote. Sophomore English majors. Even money-grubbing lawyers, likely enough.”

He licked an index finger, drew a “one” in the air, and said, “Point to you, Ms. James. A very palpable hit!!”

“You want to keep trying? I can run up the score fast, but don’t you be charging me for it!”

“Curses, you're on to me!” he responded with a smile. Becoming serious, he added, “If Chaucer’s too easy, I don’t have the background to ask you hard questions. But even if lots of people know that quote, I doubt lots of seventeen-year-old girls do.”

We stared at each other for a moment.

Finally I said, “Scams and delusions don’t fit the evidence. It’s a binary solution set. Either I’m lying – and I studied my ass off to be convincing – or my story’s true.” I looked guileless. At least, I hoped I looked guileless. With a face like mine, “guileless” should be the damned default setting!

After a long moment he sighed. “I’m sorry, Ms. James. Every instinct I have tells me that I should believe you. But the male of the species who could disbelieve you when you sit there looking like that has yet to be born. An objective fact of which you are no doubt fully aware. So in this particular circumstance, I can’t trust my instinct.”

“Thank you . . . I think.” His response was extremely vexing. But also . . . kind of nice?

Focus, girl!!!

“Ms. James. Jessica. You don’t need me to believe your story – not for anything you’ve asked me to do. If you want me to review language to see if I can find a way around it I’m happy to, and the skill that I apply to that task will not be affected by whether I remain skeptical.”

“I wonder if you’re right about that,” I said slowly.

“I assure you . . . “ he began.

I held up my hand to silence him. “Bear with me, please . . . .” I thought a moment before continuing. “I asked them to give me the clearest statement of their rule in English. But it’ll be a translation. Translations are problematic even when you are going from one human language to another, and our mental processes are all generally the same. We don’t even have the first idea how these creatures think, much less how they communicate. Even the concepts behind their speech will be different from English – or any terrestrial language – in ways we can’t begin to understand yet.”

I was speaking carefully, feeling my way. I was just now starting to understand how difficult this task could be, and my focus was entirely inward.

But this seemed to impress Abel in a way that my earlier assertions, and my most guileless expression, hadn’t. “Those are . . . good points,” he said. “This won’t be like interpreting a statute passed by Congress. We’re going to need to ask them follow-up questions, to clarify the full spectrum of meanings they are attempting to convey with the English words they select. Will that be possible?”

“I don’t know. I suggested the meeting to the guy they sent to talk with me, but he had to take it back to his superiors. I’m hoping to hear back directly. But they are aliens. I don’t know what they’ll decide, or even how long they’ll take to make a decision.”

Abel looked at me. For the first time, I think, he really saw me. And the person he was seeing was not, thank God, just a seventeen-year-old ingenue. “I hope they call,” he said softly. “I’m beginning to think this could be a truly unique assignment.”

Projecting calm through a swirl of new and conflicting emotions, I met his dark eyes squarely. “Indeed,” I said.

To be continued. Indeed.